Slipping Between Worlds
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: An experiment. Discworld will happen here, certainly, but there will also be aspects of Terry Pratchett's non-Discworld novels, the Johnny Maxwell trilogy. The author has written a younger version of himself in as a male "Mary Sue". forgive me...
1. One day in Stroke City

_**Slipping Between Worlds**_

_**Prologue: "Stroke City**__**"**_**(1)**_**. The Creggan. Sometime in the middle 1980's. **_

It was shaping up to be a complete and utter shithouse of a day. Under the sort of chill grey Northern Irish sky that was either raining or threatening rain, and which was the perfect complement of the cheap bleak council housing estate all around them, Lieutenant Holtack took an anxious glance up and down Creggan Heights.

_We should be moving. The patrol route gives me the choice of north-east towards Rathmore Roundabout or right into Fanad Drive and back towards the old walled city again, down past Creggan Eastway. But these bloody idiots have stalled us. _

Creggan Heights had been designed as an urban throughway, a wide road designed to speed traffic through and around the estate as quickly as was optimal. Unless you lived here or had business here, there was no incentive to linger. From Holtack's specialised point of view, his eight-man patrol, escorting two Royal Ulster Constabulary constables so they could fly the flag and make at least a semblance of policing the area, needed to linger _for just long enough_, taking care to keep moving and watching out all the time for anything with the potential of upsetting their day. Neither the RUC nor the British Army was popular on the west bank of the River Foyle.

And, sod's law, on this bleak and highly seasonable July day, they just had to run into trouble. Holtack turned round towards the broken-down coach that was the cause of the bother. One of the RUC men was still blocking egress from the coach, backed by three Toms who, stalwarts of the battalion rugby team, had formed a front-row of the scrum immediately behind him. The remainder of the patrol had taken what cover they could, which was minimal, and were watching the street. Sensibly, the locals were indoors, and were not adding petrol to the fire. Holtack mistrusted this. This could be to allow an ASU a better field of fire, and it could be getting into position right now.

"Keep near the coach." Holtack instructed his men, needlessly. He was putting his trust in the IRA's oft-repeated statement that it was not an organisation of sectarian killers. That it would not murder people indiscriminately only for being Protestant, despite grievous provocation by Loyalist paramilitaries bent on indiscriminate killing of Catholics regardless of their actions and associations.

Even if a sniper could bag a Brit, the high-velocity bullet would go straight through him and into a coach full of Prots, putting holes in more people before it emerged from the other side of the vehicle and, who knows, coming to rest in the house of the Catholic family over the way. . Which would be bad PR for PIRA. Holtack was betting they'd worked out the odds, and were refraining from combat. _Which means the dangerous time for us is moving out. _

And these Prots were the dangerous sort, nasty-minded redneck idiots coming into Stroke City from elsewhere in the Unionist hinterland to march and play in one of the Orange marches. They hadn't been able to resist the provocation of needlessly driving in the long way round, through the Catholic ghetto of the Creggan, so that they could sneer and sing and throw insults and worse out of the coach windows at hapless passers-by. This had backfired on them when their coach had broken down right in the middle of enemy turf, but the stupid bastards hadn't had the sense to keep their heads down and not draw attention to themselves. Even now, several flutes were trilling, a drum was beating, and they were on the Sash again. Holtack wondered exactly how much alcohol was in circulation on that coach.

"_You cannot prevent us!" _the fat man was bellowing, inches from the face of an RUC peeler. Holtack wondered at the patience of the RUC man. If that fat shit in the UDA t-shirt was spitting in _his_ face like that…

He stepped forward.

"Frankly, this is starting to get out of hand." he remarked to the other RUC man. "I appreciate this is your patrol and it's up to you to police the situation, but we are here as your immediate back-up. I'm not happy my men are in an insanely exposed position and the longer it goes on, the more exposed we get. I ask, and bear in mind at present I'm only _asking_: do you require Army intervention here to enforce an arrest?"

Holtack looked directly at the Fat Man, who tried to hold his gaze but blinked away, in the face of a scowl that said "Pissed-Off Army Officer Running Out Of Patience."

The policeman shook his head.

"These are our people, Lieutenant. We know how to handle them. Please leave it up to us? And is there any sign at all of that relief coach yet?"

Holtack looked to his radio operator for a report.

"Base have rogered, sir. Replacement coach and recovery team on its way as soon as they can roust out somebody prepared to risk it on this side of the river."

"Keep the line open. Constable, do you want me to radio for back-up? Two of you aren't nearly enough. You need more men and a few snatch-rovers to book the arrestees"

The RUC man shook his head again.

"There's no question of arresting…"

"…your own kith and kin. I know."

In the background, a snide Welsh voice muttered

_Just like London, ain't it? Down there the taxi drivers do not go south of the river. In Londonderry, aye, they do not dare go __**west **__of the river."_

Fusilier Pegden. It had to be. But he'd voiced a local condition, an unwritten law: in East Derry, the taxi and coach firms were all Protestant-owned, In the West, they were all Catholic firms. While a certain amount of mixing happened in the city centre, none dared cross to the opposite side for fear of paramilitaries.

_It is old but it is beautiful, and its colours they are fine  
It was worn at Derry, Aughrim, Enniskillen and the Boyne._

At least they're singing the official words, Holtack thought. But give 'em a chance and a few more beers and it'll be the other set of lyrics, the even more inflammatory ones. God knows, in this place and time that tune is inflammatory enough!

_My father wore it as a youth in bygone days of yore,  
And on the Twelfth I love to wear the sash my father wore._

Born in Wales, Phillip Holtack had attended a boarding school in Cheshire, just on the other side of the border and near enough to his family home in Denbighshire to make commuting easy, The school had an arrangement with the local professional football club that allowed its pupils discounted tickets for home games. Holtack had loved the match-day atmosphere at Edgeley Park, and his Saturday morning classes had dragged interminably on a match day, waiting for the moment when he could join the blue-and-white throng on Castle Street and Edgeley Road. He recalled that Stockport County, a club that had evolved from a Saturday side organised by a strict-rule noncomformist church, had adapted The Sash as its club anthem. Although he had been too young to see the deeper implications, its Firm of soccer hooligans had called themselves the Edgeley Volunteer Force after the Northern Irish paramilitaries.

_It's forever being beautiful,  
And the colour's white and blue,  
I wore it proudly 'round my neck,  
At Chesterfield & Crewe,  
My father was a County fan,  
Like me grandfather before,  
And at Edgeley Park I love to wear,  
The scarf me father wore._

"Sir?" Sergeant Williams asked, wondering. With a guilty start, Holtack realised he'd been humming the last few lines out loud.

"Funny thing, sergeant." Holtack said, recovering himself. If you'd asked the average County fan why he was singing a version of a sectarian Irish song, he'd have shrugged in perplexity. Despite appearances, outside the foully right-wing thugs of the EDF, it was not a sectarian football club, in the Glasgow Rangers sense.

"At home, that's only a football chant."

"Shame about here, sir!" the sergeant said, darkly. "Oh-oh. That fat -'s kicking off again."

"_And I say again! We are free citizens of Ulster! You cannot prevent us!"_

"Keep them on the coach!" yelled Holtack. His front-row forwards were a useful asset. If he needed power, strength and speed to blitz a bunch of rioters, banjo their way through and snatch an errant stroppy Mick, they were his men.

Stepping around and isolating the fat man, who Holtack noted with disgust had been allowed to leave the coach and who was now on the road remonstrating with the two policemen, the snatch-squad used their rifles, held level across their chests, as a physical inducement to the rest to back up and get back aboard. He noticed one of the spilling Micks trying to grab Fusiler Powell's rifle and to use it as a level to wrestle him. There was a sickening, gunshot-like _crack_, and the hapless Irishman fell back onto those behind him.

_Bad move. Powell always was a master of the head-butt. Good, they're carrying him back on. Ok. Events have now placed the Army in charge to back up failing and ineffectual civilian authority. Good. Maybe we can wrap this one up. _

Holtack stepped up to the Fat Man, holding his own rifle in an unthreatening muzzle-down position. He ignored the two policemen, who as far as he was concerned had had their chance and muffed it.

"Right. We're getting you a replacement coach so you can carry on your journey uninterrupted and unimpeded. My men are looking to your safety. What exactly do you _want_?"

The fat man – Holtack noted, with distaste, his arms were full of UDA and Loyalist tattoos – calmed down from what had been a default Paisely-like shout.

"I told you. We want to get off this coach as it's going nowhere. We want to form up as a band and supporters with our instruments and march from here to Diamond Square."

Holtack locked eyes with him, ignoring a Welsh voice that said, incredulously, _are these people bloody stupid? Ignorant as well as plain nasty? _

"Assuming I were to allow that, which I wouldn't, how far do you think you'd get? "

"_Five to one says the corner of Fanad and Creggan Broadway…"_

"_You reckon, boyo? I'd say some of them get as far as Lecky Street and Rossville..."_

"_We are marching! _No bloody peeler and certainly no Taig or Fenian is going to stop us/ The Fenians wouldn't have the guts!"

"_I'm_ not bloody well escorting you! Which gives me a dilemma. I'm here to provide protection to the civilian police, who almost certainly would escort you even though they are prime targets. . My men also have a duty to dampen down any breach of the peace that happens in our patrol area. You are a bloody big breach of the peace and have been since your coach broke down here. And you are threatening what I see as my most basic duty of all, which is to get my men back to barracks with minimal casualties! I've had a gutful of _you_, your _posing_, and your _antics_! You just do not seem to realise or care what sort of danger you have placed my men in! So I suggest you get back on that fucking coach NOW or WE will start making arrests!"

"You can get out of my way, soldier boy…"

Holtack nodded as the fat man pushed him in the chest with an emphatic finger. Against his flak jacket, he hardly felt it.

"You both saw that, constables? Sergeant Williams? Good."

Holtack braced himself against a full-palm thrust.

"You leave me no alternative, sir." He said, raising his rifle, stepping back, and then stabbing the muzzle viciously forwards.

He felt the shock as it sank a good six inches into the fat man's gut, causing his eyes to widen and breath to be expelled in one pained gush as he doubled up and fell forwards. The front row stepped up behind to back up their officer.

"Now". said Holtack, to a suddenly silent and watchful coachload of UDA bandsmen.. "I do not expect to have to repeat myself. Get. Back. On. Board. That. Fucking. Coach! And wait!"

He turned and walked away.

"Well done, sir!" Sergeant Williams said. "We'd better get our reports straight when we get back to barracks. I'll make sure the men all saw that bugger take a slap at you, in case he sues for assault."

"Thanks, sergeant."

"And if I can advise, sir. Best get the duty armourer to check your rifle muzzle's still in true after that whack. Otherwise you _still_ won't be able to hit the city wall from ten feet away!"

"Thank you for the vote of confidence in my shooting, sergeant."

"A pleasure, sir!"

Holtack grinned. Sergeant Williams, a fifteen year veteran, had been his platoon sergeant ever since he had arrived, green and anxious, to command Seven Platoon a year before. He was allowed a few liberties at his officer's expense.

Holtack adopted a defensive crouch and watched the street, hoping nobody watching had identified him as the officer in command. He heard the sound of the relief convoy turning up – a coach and a breakdown lorry escorted by a Saracen and a couple of armoured Landrovers.

He looked the other way and saw he first pedestrian in maybe half an hour. It was the old bag lady he'd seen aimlessly mooching around town, dressed in shabby black, pushing a wonky old supermarket trolley piled with black bin bags. He'd seen her in all the districts they'd patrolled: the city centre and Diamond Square, the Catholic Bogside, and the Prot Waterside.

_Tramps and bag ladies get everywhere, _he reasoned_. They're beneath notice. _

He'd also heard, from the Marines they'd inherited the patrol area from, that it wasn't worth anyone's while trying to search her down. The Marines had been concerned that she was being used to smuggle things around, the paramilitaries reasoning that fastidious soldiers of both sexes would shudder at searching a long-time bag lady. _But she can't half move_. Ignores all orders to stop, the lads, quite rightly, don't want to shoot and have an old lady on their conscience – a propaganda gift to the Provos, in _this_ city**(2)** - and the only time a patrol got close enough to even contemplate searching that trolley, this bloody wildcat leapt out hissing and spitting from somewhere, went off like a car-bomp packed full of nails, and ripped a hole in Marine Goodier's face. While the patrol was concerned with Goodier, she disappeared. So just treat her like a bag-lady. I doubt she's much use to anyone. Her brain's scrambled, for one thing. _Kept going on about millennium, hand and shrimp. _

Holtack's section spent just long enough to see the bandsmen transferred to a new coach, his men forming a tight-lipped cordon, allowing them to pass in ones and twos at a time, waiting for trouble they could deal with. Then in the circumstances, they were lifted out in the Saracen, to be set down to resume their patrol on Creggan Road, near Brooke Park. Again, Holtack wondered about the little old bag lady with the wonky shopping trolley. _She'll be okay. One positive thing about the Irish as that they tend to respect the elderly. The last yobbo who tried to mug a granny for her pension got turned over to the IRA for remedial knee surgery. And my Toms applauded that. Sergeant Williams was doing a night patrol when that little thug got kneecapped. His patrol reports were all suspiciously alike the next day – they heard the screams, proceeded to the area, found the injured youth, called up a blood-wagon to take him to Altnagelvin. No sign of the perps. I wonder what else went on? Eight Toms are concealing something there. But I'm only their officer, after all._

Paddy Meehan's bar served all sorts. Paddy was a kindly man, and saw part of his Christian duty as succouring those less fortunate than himself. He didn't know where the old woman had come from, but sure, he made sure she got a half-pint of Guinness and a leftover pie and chips from lunch service.

_Her mind's half gone, poor old crone, and she sounds more English than Irish, but we've never been at war with their old ladies who are down on their luck._

Besides, a part of his Irish soul, that went far deeper that St Patrick and St Columb had ever reached, was sending up insistent ancestral memories that it was bad luck to offend a crone, regardless of her nationality. Better to send her on her way, with her inclined to give a blessing on the house.

She was happy to sit in the beer-garden out back, eat her pie and chips, mumble happily to herself…. And to feed that ugly scraggy three-legged moggy the odd chip, would you believe?

He looked at the assortment of small coin she had pressed upon him. Some recognisably British crown, but the rest foreign. One or two were odd: they showed the profile of a hawk-nosed thin man with a goatee beard. The letters were fogged from use, but he could make out "one penny" or "six pennies", and half-read a name. "_Vet….ari? A-n-M-rk?"_

Ah well, they'd go in the pot with foreign coins from people's holidays, all the pesetas and lira, and the ones who wilfully misunderstood and held British money to be foreign coin… Paddy dealt in both Irish and British currency, as on the border both were legal tender, and he'd seen his share of the world's foreign currency, but these defeated him. He shrugged. He'd done his duty by the old woman, anyway.

Outside in the small beergarden, Mrs Tachyon fed Guilty another chip. It was glopped down in two bites.

"What do you reckon, Guilty? We go to the place where they eat rat and put it into pies? Millenium, hand and shrimp! We might see Ron again, and his talking dog!"

She smiled. Such a nice country, Ireland, and lovely people. Despite the Troubles.

* * *

1 **(1) **_**London/Derry, **_**depending on which side of the river Foyle you're on. . Hence to generations of British service personnel**_**, "Stroke City".**_ The Creggan - from the Gaelic for "a rocky place" - is a Catholic overspill housing estate in its western region.

(2) Bloody Sunday in 1971 saw the Parachute Regiment panic, lose control, and fire wildly at largely unarmed civilian protesters. This piece of madness had far-reaching repercussions for the British Army in Northern Ireland. In its essentials, all junior officers ever after were taught that if they ever fucked it up as badly as the Paras did and lost control of their men to that extent, then put yourself under close arrest afterwards and expect a court-martial. The day caused so much bad feeling that in itself it may have contributed to the whole mess dragging on even into the early 2000's with occassional flare-ups even today.

* * *

I am writing about London/Derry as I knew it in the 1980's. I am aware things have changed a lot since, the sangars and sandbags have gone, the place has been pruced up, and it actually looks like a lovely place to visit. I would like to go back there one day, but un-armed, this time.


	2. The Working Unit

_**Slipping Between Worlds 2**_

**_A short chapter, but one setting the scene and providing a bit of background to the situation and characters. _**

_**Prologue: **_

_Little carts, in great abundance, became a pestilence in the city. None knew from where they came nor what Mind directed them. But they proved to be of such great use, men were employed to herd them and bring them into the city. No sooner was this work accomplished then all of a sudden , like unto a rush of creatures, they became self-willed and fled, taking with them great store of produce and the things men held dear. Men pursued them and behold, there was a new city outside the walls, a city of merchants' booths wherein the carts ran…_

_**(**__From __**Stripfettle's Believe-It-Or-Not-Grimoire, **__quoted by Terry Pratchett in __**Reaper Man).**_

Every direction was filled with an advancing, grinding, fighting, wall of trolleys.

"They're coming to get us! They're coming to _get _us!" wailed the Bursar. The Dean snatched his staff.

"Hey! That's mine!"

The Dean pushed him away and blew the wheels off a leading trolley.

"That's my staff!"

The wizards stood back to back in a narrowing ring of metal.

"They're not right for this city" said the Lecturer in Recent runes.

"I know what you mean" said Ridcully. "Alien".

The Dean took aim again and melted a basket.

"That's _my_ staff you're using, you know!"

"Shut up, Bursar." said the Archchancellor. "And, Dean, you are getting nowhere picking them off one by one like that. OK, lads? We want to do them as much damage as possible – remember, wild, uncontrolled, bursts!"

The trolleys advanced.

_(Quoted from __**Reaper Man**__, by Terry Pratchett, extracted from Corgi pp pp200-204)_

While the Dean and the Bursar fought for possession of a staff, Recent Runes thought hard. He levelled his staff and the words of a spell leapt from brain to mouth without passing any intermediate levels in between. A glowing bubble of electric-blue light erupted in the wall of trolleys. It expanded to about six feet across, then evaporated leaving, briefly, absolutely nothing inside it. Then it imploded as the vacuum drew in trolleys from all around, which clashed together and mangled as normal atmospheric pressure reasserted itself.

Runes basked smugly in the brief applause. Moorcock's Multiversal Manipulator outlined a sphere of matter – all matter encompassed in that sphere - and indiscriminately dumped it in some other plane of reality, a long way away from you. It then became Somebody Else's Problem, in keeping with the wizards' practices and protocols for disposing of hazardous magical waste. And if you were a living entity who was part inside and part outside the bubble when its contents were despatched to an alternative reality somewhere else, your troubles were only just beginning.

_**The old jam and pickle factory, Blackbury, Lancashire. Sometime in the very early 1980's. **_

The Blackbury Preserves pickle and jam factory had seen two world wars. It had supplied rations to Our Boys in the Boer war, in the trenches of Flanders, in the terrible heat and pitiless conditions of the North-West Frontier and Afghanistan1**(1)** in between the wars, and had been burnt out in 1941 on the terrible night Paradise Street had been bombed, but had bounced back to enjoy a brief resurgence in the 1960's.

Since the last Ministry of Defence contract to supply its produce for Army ration packs and barracks canteens had ended in 1980, the firm had quietly expired of terminal bankruptcy and unsympathetic lenders, all that was of use had been stripped out and resold to Third World producers making similar products at a tenth of the labour costs2**(2)** and six hundred Blackbury workers had seen what the dole queue looked like from the back.

In the empty echoing space, only the old bag lady and her cat watched the electric-blue bubble form, lighting up the dead factory void with eerie luminescence.. As it evaporated, familiar shapes dropped out of it with a series of metallic clanks and tinkles, which echoed in the huge space of a dead factory with nothing to fact.

"Now there's a thing, Guilty!" she remarked to her cat. "It could be just what we need!"

A lonely and disorientated worker unit dropped upright onto a wooden-planked floor. It was a hive creature that now knew itself, in the depths of its basket, to be an unguessably vast distance away from its hive, if the hive still existed. Had it had enough sentience to analyse its situation, it would have known that it needed to be needed.

And it was all alone here, the only one that had been caught up intact in Recent Runes' spell. The grisly part-remains of other worker units, now dead, were scattered around it.

It sank down on its wheels in what might have been called despondency. Its handle drooped.

And then the cheerful black-clad humanoid was putting things in its basket, and some sort of three-legged animal entity had jumped in after it. Mrs Tachyon was humming a popular song from the 1930's about there being magic in the air… it is open to debate as to how much she realised about how right she was.

For in making the transition from Ankh-Morpork to Earth, the worker unit had brought with it not just the part-corpses of seven or eight of its fellows.

It had brought with it a shaped sphere of Ankh-Morpork air, together with a not completely spent magical field and part of the Disc's unique standing wave of magical energy.

And this magic, imbued as it was with a powerful spell for transportation in space and time across all the dimensions, had to go _somewhere_.

Part of it energised the worker unit. Guilty the cat flattened his ears, growled, and fended off his share. He was happy to be a passenger on this trip. There could well be chips.

But the greater part of the residual magic lodged in Mrs Tachyon and the things in the old carrier bags and black bin-liners that were precious to her, and imbued with her personal essence.

As if she'd just had an idea, she mused

"I knew this place when it were a jam factory. I could do with some apple and blackcurrant jam right now!"

And then she, the cat, and the worker unit, disappeared and travelled a long way while staying in the same place. She returned a few seconds later with two jars of Blackbury Jam. A keen observer might have noticed a somewhat _archaic_ look about the labels.

"That man in 1911 was awfully nice, wasn't he, Guilty?" she said, brightly. "Very generous!"

She paused, and mused

"I could use some new linen. You knew, a blouse for best, maybe a scarf. Londonderry Brand was always the best, nobody could make it like the Irish!"

She stored this up as an idea for later. But she recalled the very best fish and chips she had ever eaten had been during the War, when you had to eat quickly for fear of Hitler dropping a bomb on you so that you'd miss out on finishing the portion. She thought wistfully of 1941, just before the Blitz… she might even warn herself not to go down Paradise Street, just in case.

* * *

**(1) **Some things never change, do they…. British soldiers in Afghanistan, for one.

**(2) **And without any of those pesky health and safety at work regulations or the expensive need to, for eg, provide employees dealing with boiling sugar with appropriate safety equipment. You know, all those bits of red tape and regulation that Margaret Thatcher said were strangling British industry. That was immediately after she expressed her determination not to subsidise failing manufacturing industry in the North with thinly disguised government subsidy (let's say a lucrative contract to supply the Army Catering Corps with jams and pickles) as this was distorting the market economy, and why should the prosperous south carry the burden of a failing North… sorry, rant over….


	3. Enter Alice, or one of her

_**Slipping Between Worlds 3 (Enter Alice. Or at least, one of her.)**_

_**The Old Shirt Factory, Londonderry, the middle 1980's **_

_Based on personal experience. And if it didn't happen to me, it happened to somebody else. The "Shirt Factory" is meant to be a semi- fictional example of the sort of hastily improvised accomodation that thousands of us remember and still shudder at the memory of, with inadequate hot water, ventilation, washing facilities, and above all seriously overcrowded. Some of my Toms likened similar spikes to a Japanese PoW camp in WW2 and nicknamed it "Changhi" after the filthy jail in Singapore that the Japs used as a holding centre for British prisoners. Any readers remember Bessbrook? _

Holtack and his patrol returned thankfully to barracks. At least it was a chance to clean up and relax, even if little else could be said for the place, five stories of depressing black brick that until the decline of the British textile industry had housed a shirt factory. The building had been slated for demolition until the Troubles had seen an unprecedented thirty thousand British service personnel sent to garrison the province, ostensibly to support the Royal Ulster Constabulary in its policing duties and prevent a complete collapse of normal law and order, or what passed for it, in Northern Ireland.

Those thirty thousand men and women all needed to be housed _somewhere,_ and even the blank cheque that successive British governments had underwritten for the six counties of northern Ireland had a limit. Building appropriate barracks here for so many, and building them to acceptable modern standards, would have been impossible and far too costly.

Instead, the civil servants at the MoD, who didn't have to live in them, had sanctioned the conversion of pre-existing buildings into makeshift barrack spaces. And people like Lieutenant Philip Holtack, together with over seven hundred other men and women, were the ones who had to makeshift in space that formerly had been ample for four hundred (largely female) machinists and cutters. The barracks also had to find room for the usual military bureaucracy, with its hierarchies, paperwork, offices, and storage spaces. For over seven hundred people, it was a tight fit.

"Space out!" Holtack called. "Stay alert!"

One of the most dangerous times in any long patrol was the return to base. After up to eight hours of constant vigilance in typically Irish weather, even the best soldiers could ease off and relax a bit when home and the prospect of dry warmth was in sight. Anticipating safety before they'd actually got there was dangerous. It was a favourite time for PIRA to bounce a patrol.

Holtack moved his head in a long slow rotation, taking in the roadside, parked vehicles, and the buildings on either side. They were still in hostile territory, here, on the fringe of the Bogside, another Catholic ghetto. Like a long-time policeman, he'd learnt to scan things and take in a lot of detail in a single glance.

_Is that car there sitting too low on its rear springs? What's the weight pressing down on it? It might be two hundred pounds of IED on a control wire. _

"Pegden, run forward and check that car. Red Sierra. See it?"

It was Pegden's turn to take on a duty that might kill him but save the rest. Holtack himself had done it often enough, the anxious heart-pounding approach to a suspect vehicle while everyone around halted at a safe distance and took up defensive positions. He would look in the back windows for telltale signs whilst praying here wasn't a watcher waiting for just the right moment to touch two wires together. Or a sniper waiting for a Tom to be detailed to check a decoy car.

Holtack scanned the rooftops.

_They keep their houses in deliberately bad repair around here. It makes it harder to see where a roof-tile might have been deliberately removed to give a sniper cover to take aim at his leisure…_

"Clear, sir!" called Pegden. Holtack noted Sergeant Williams moving forward, no doubt to give Pegden a sharp whispered word about his having just identified the officer with the patrol.

_But how do you stop private soldiers calling their officers "sir"? _Holtack wondered. _We spend a long time drumming it into them during recruit training till it's practically ingrained. That, and saluting. Gifts to anyone watching and listening who can only get one shot off, and wants it to hurt. _

Holtack squinted sideways at the two dark green pips on his epaulettes, designed to identify him as an officer at short range while being – hopefully – invisible on his camouflage jacket at a distance. Sergeant Williams' stripes were similarly small and discreet. But still visible through a sniper's scope.

The section moved cautiously till it was a hundred yards away from the Factory gates, which were huge, black, forbidding, and braced with steel reinforcement and barbed wire. Somebody inside was watching: a gate swung open just wide enough to admit a single man. This was a necessity: an early garrison, new to the game, had obligingly left the gates fully open for an RPG to be fired in, which had exploded in a fully-fuelled lorry in the vehicle park and started an expensive conflagration. One by one, the section ran in, Holtack going second-last just before Fusiler Powell.

The gate closed behind them. They were home.

_The life of the very young officer is full of surprises, and perhaps the most shaking is the moment when he comes face to face with his men for the first time. His new sergeant stamps to a halt in front of him, salutes, and barks: "Platoon-presnready-frinspeckshun-sah!", and as he clears his throat and regards the thirty still figures, each looking to its front with frozen intensity, the young subaltern realises that this is it, at last; this is what he is drawing his meagre pay for. _

_In later years he may command armies or govern great territories, but he will never feel again the same powerdrunk humility of the moment when he takes over his platoon. It is elating and terrifying - mostly terrifying. These thirty men are his responsibility, to look after, to supervise, to lead (whatever that means). Of course, they will do what he tells them - or he hopes they will, anyway. Suppose they don't? Suppose that ugly one in the front rank suddenly says "No, I will not slope arms for you, or shave in the morning, or die for king and country"? The subaltern feels panic stealing over him, until he remembers that at his elbow there is a sergeant, who is wise in dealing with these matters, and he feels better. _

_(Quoted from George McDonald Fraser's __**Silence in the ranks!**__ One of his semi-autobiographical short stories about his life in the Gordon Highlanders.)_**(1)**

"Well done, lads. After the Green Slime are done with us, we'll hand in our ammo and then clean rifles. Yes, I _know_ we've not fired a shot, but it doesn't hurt the weapons if they're clean and it won't hurt you for doing it!"

The duty Intelligence Corps orderlies, known to the rest of the Army as the Green Slime, took their patrol reports with bored detachment, perking up only at the welcome news that Fusilier Powell had nutted one mouthy Prot and Lieutenant Holtack would have bayoneted another if only he'd had a bayonet to hand.

"_Bayonitsu,_ isn't it?" said Fusilier Williams, J.J. "The old and noble Japanese martial art of bayoneting some fat gobby scrote without a bayonet, aye."

It was at this point that Captain Band, the adjutant, walked in, and fixed Holtack with a characteristically freezing look.

"You're finished here? Good. Colonel's office. Now."

He left, some nameless Fusilier humming the bugle call summoning military criminals to justice:

_"You can be a defaulter as long as you like, as long as you answer your na-a-a-me"._

"What's it about?" Holtack asked. The Colonel did not normally summon his young officers to Battalion HQ during office hours just for a social chat.

"There's been a complaint about the way you handled your patrol this afternoon." said Captain Band, in a carefully neutral voice. "It seems the RUC weren't happy with your handling of the situation, and the injured party is considering an action for assault."

_Thank you for your foresight, Sergeant Williams, _he thought.

He meekly followed Captain Band up several flights of stairs and around a few corridors, dodging around and through a fatigue party who were listlessly redistributing diluted dirt with mops. He noted they speeded up a little as the two officers passed, but guessed they'd slacken off as soon as they were out of sight.

The notoriously austere Captain Band made a point of not speaking if any private soldiers were obviously within earshot – _but then, everyone in the Shirt Factory is living in each other's back pockets here anyway – _and led him directly to BHQ Office.

"The Colonel is currently having his ear bent by the local Chief Inspector. Who has received complaints from the two constables you escorted on patrol earlier. Who are unhappy with your resolution of a certain tense situation."

Holtack sighed.

"If it had been a Catholic I clobbered, what's the betting the Chief Inspector would be here to give me a handshake and a hearty thank-you?" Holtack mused. "Just because it's probably somebody he knows from the Orange Lodge…" Captain Band shot him a look of pure undiluted contempt.

"We're not talking about _you_!" she exploded. "It's Fusilier Powell you need to get off the hook!"

Holtack remembered.

"Ah. "Head-butt" Powell."

"Who won that match against Two Para for us by three nuttings and a right uppercut." she said. "The Colonel wishes me to remind you that the Battallion side is playing a supposed friendly against a local club next week. Hearts and minds stuff, you understand? Powell is our tight-head prop forward, and the Colonel wants him free for the game, and _not_ in a cell!"

They paused at BHQ office. Captain Alice Band, W.R.A.C., paused in the act of opening the door for him.

"Stall them. Bullshit them. Or I might remember your unorthodox sleeping arrangements, and have you move back in with Lieutenant Green."

Holtack shuddered. Adjutants know _everything._ That's their job. As the executive administrative officer for the Battalion, Alice was probably the second most powerful person after the Regimental Sergeant Major. Third most powerful, if you counted the colonel.

And rugby football, in a Welsh regiment, was one short stop away from a religion. If the Colonel wanted a win over a local club side, then a win must be delivered.

The battalion orderly office was a relatively large and spacious room , one of the few in the Shirt Factory that was spacious and well-lit by natural light from large well-cleaned windows on two walls. In a throw-back to World War Two, the window panes were criss-crossed by white tape against blast, and incongruously protected by large thick net curtains.**(2)** Soldier orderlies of both sexes worked here, industriously working on standard issue electric typewriters, or manually working on documentation. This was Alice Band's parish, and everyone knew it. She waved her staff back to work, Holtack noting that now Wimbledon was back in the office, her underlings seemed to work much faster and with more resolution.

She knocked on the door marked Battalion Commander, then opened it and announced

"Lieutenant Holtack, sir!" As she made to close it behind them, her eyes said _you're on your own, boy. _

Holtack took in the colonel and a senior policeman whose tunic seemed to drip with braid. With one of the constables from earlier. Knowing it would annoy the coppers, he marched in, crashed to an echoing "attention" on the bare wooden floor, and threw up a salute that not even the RSM on a bad day could have found fault with.

Colonel Otway-Williams winced.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

He nodded.

"Captain Band, please remain."

Alice said "Very good, sir!" and stood close to his desk.

"Lieutenant Holtack. This is Chief Inspector Daniels of the Royal Ulster Constabulary. Constable McCaffrey you of course are already acquainted with. Now in your own time, please give an account of the patrol you have just returned from."

Holtack related the patrol in carefully neutral terms, the Colonel, who didn't appear surprised, nodding and occasionally asking for clarification of a point."

"And that's what we're here to investigate, sir." said the Chief Inspector. "An act of assault on a member of the Aughnagarvey Apprentice Boys Orange Marching Band, who was savagely head-butted without provocation by one of your Fusiliers as he tried to step out of the coach for a wee bit of fresh air, as he was feeling travel-sick at the time. The complainant suffered facial contusions and a broken nose which were treated at the Altnagelvin Hospital. We have _photographs_. "

Holtack felt Alice's eyes burning a hole into him. Suddenly he felt inspired.

"And which of thirty-seven serving Fusiliers who all share the surname "Powell" do you mean?" he asked, innocently.

Alice coughed, discreetly.

"Thirty-_eight!_" she corrected him. "I should _know_."

"I mean, we could arrange an identity parade…" Holtack suggested, his voice conveying harmonics of wishing to help the police as fully and frankly in their inquiries as he possibly could.

"If your man's up to it, of course."

The Inspector shaded his face with his hands.

"Thirty-eight?" he said, disbelievingly.

"Well, sir, it could have been worse." Holtack said. "There aren't really all that many ethnically Welsh surnames, when you come to think about it. You might be looking for a Fusilier Williams, for instance."

"We've got one hundred and three of _them_!" Alice said, in her most innocent and helpful voice. "Of course, a proportion of them are officers and NCO's, which eliminates them if you're looking for a Fusilier…"

"One hundred and three…" muttered the constable.

"Yes. It _is_ as helpful as putting your head around the door of a bar in the Waterside, and calling for somebody called Billy." agreed Holtack. "You have to narrow it down a bit more."

"Let's get this conversation back on track, shall we?" the Inspector said, wearily. He semed to know when jhe was being stalled. "I want the Fusilier Powell who head-butted a member of the public this afternoon. Who was in your patrol, Lieutenant. You must surely know your own men?"

"I do recall an altercation, yes." Holtack agreed. "The gentleman who obviously considers himself to be the injured party was fighting with one of my Fusiliers for possession of that Fusilier's rifle. He laid hands on the rifle and was doing his best to grab it. At which point my Fusilier used a minimal degree of appropriate force to dissuade him from continuing to struggle."

"By head-butting him?"

"Well, Powell had both hands on his personal weapon at the time, sir. Might I add that the Fusilier was doing him a favour? Had he succeeded in wresting control of the weapon, then a yellow card situation would have arisen. In accordance with the Rules of Engagement, we would have treated him as a hostile paramilitary with a weapon, and given him one chance and one chance only to surrender. Then we would have been quite legally within our rights to have used lethal force. Sir."

_And Sergeant Williams would have beasted Powell's arse from one end of the Shirt Factory to the other for losing his rifle to a hostile. And I'd have left him to it. _

The Chief Inspector and the constable looked at each other and a doubtful look passed between them.

"My men have lodged their patrol reports with the Intelligence Section. I'm sure in the interests of co-operation you will be allowed to read them before you go. They should say broadly the same thing."

"Yes. I'm sure they will!" muttered the Chief Inspector. Holtack pressed his advantage.

"After all, sir, I'm sure you'll agree with me that far too many British-made weapons have mysteriously made their way into the possession of the Protestant paramilitaries. The more we stop, the better."

The policeman nodded, his face reddening slightly.

"Colonel, do you mind if we visit the intelligence section and look at the rest of the reports, just to be certain?"

"Not at all!" said Colonel Otway-Williams. "Captain Band, will you find them an escort? Thank you."

The Chief Inspector found time for a parting shot at Holtack.

"You do realise the gentleman _you_ assaul… defended yourself against … will not be pressing charges? He's the second-in –command of the County Tyrone Ulster Defence Association, by the way."

Holtack took a moment to digest this.

"Didn't realise that, sir! Thank you for telling me!"

"Would it have made a difference to you if you had known?"

"Yes, sir. I would have hit him harder, sir."

"this way, gentlemen" Alice Band requested, ushering the policemen out.

The Colonel remained silent until Alice returned on her own.

"Well, I think that's the last we'll hear of that!" he said. "Thank you, Alice, Philip. You did marvellously! I'm damned if I'm losing one of the Batallion's best forwards just for doing his duty!"

Then his face hardened.

"But _you _are bollocked, though!" he shouted, pointing a finger at Holtack. "If only because you've made me waste half an afternoon with a self-righteous copper, just because you and your men beat up a couple of Micks of the wrong religion! If only you'd walloped a couple of Catholics, this would never have happened!"

"Yes" said Alice Band, thoughtfully. "Funny, that!"

The Colonel shot her a sideways look. He returned to Holtack.

"Apart from that, I have absolutely no complaint with the way you handled a tricky situation this afternoon. I would have done pretty much he same myself. Almost spot-on, except that I'd have shoved the coppers aside sooner, and taken direct command earlier on. Just one thing, though. When you stabbed your rifle into that man's overflowing gut, I'm sure with every reluctance._What have I taught you, laddie, about following through_?" the Colonel demanded.

"You hit a dangerous pub-fighter and utter hooligan in the belly and doubled him up. In your position, I'd have followed through and given him a lump in the back of his head to make sure he _stayed_ down!"

The colonel glared at his errant lieutenant.

"For the crime of making me sit through all that crap from the woollybacks. By virtue of the Queen's commission and the authority vested in me as Commanding Officer of this battalion, I hereby fine you one large gin and tonic, to be made payable later tonight in the mess. Now do you agree with my award or do you wish to be marched? And I warn you, Captain Band drinks large pink gins with ice and lemon."

"Award accepted, sir!"

"Good-oh. Now dismissed, and for goodness sake, spare me the parade-ground drill, I know that was only for the benefit of the woollies!"

"O-group at seven in the Mess. Do not forget." Alice said, curtly. Holtack grinned: a thank-you or even a _we got the better of those coppers between us, didn't we?_ was possibly too much to hope for.

Holtack nodded acknowledgement, and returned to his platoon.

"We cleaned your bundook for you, sir." said Sergeant Williams. "I heard how it went with the police. They came down by here with faces almost as black as Darkie Williams…"

"Oi!" said Darkie, but good-naturedly so.

"And then I heard as how you'd got Powell off the hook, you and Martina… that is, Miss Band… both. Thank you, sir!"

Holtack nodded, and went on to check his men in their cramped and insanitary spike. The best way of describing the sort of improvised barracks where many British soldiers lived cheek-by-jowl is perhaps to begin with a strong and well-known smell, like a French toilet or a Calcutta gutter, and to begin from there. Take the proverbial male bachelor bedroom odour of old sock and overflowing laundry basket and multiply by a factor of eight hundred. Also add in a desperately overloaded water system that meant most men could only wash in hot water one day in three, and a shower was a fortnightly treat. On top of this, add nearly non-existant laundry facilities for kit worn virtually every day. A common atrand in leters home was

"Dear Mum and dad. I'm still alive. Please send clean socks and underwear and afteshave and deodorants. Love, your son, BFPO 3217..."

There was also a story that way back in 1973, when the regiment did one of its first tours of duty, they'd brought the regimental animal with them with the intention of doing a hearts-and-minds march in a friendly area. The Regimental goat had sickened at the smell, and the local RSPCA had intervened by declaring that the Shirt Factory was an inhumane and unfit place to keep an animal, Regimental Goat or not..There are laws that protect animals. They don't apply to Fusiliers, who had to put up with it.

Holtack shared a greeting with Lance-Corporal Winston "Darkie" Williams, who was something special. In older days when the British Army was larger, it had actually had a separate regiment called the Liverpool Welsh. These days, they had long since been amalgamated into the Fusiliers, to whom Liverpool was a rich recruiting area. Generations of men called Jones and Owen and Hughes and Williams , sons and grandsons of Welsh emigrants but with Scouse accents that could split a brick, had served in the regiment.

Winston Williams was something different. His mother was from Dyserth, alright, but his father, also a Williams, was from Barbados.

Hence the nickname conferred in affection – Darkie.

And then there were…

"Is it Friday already?" Holtack exclaimed. "you lose track!"

Corporal Greenberg and Private Cohen had ended up in Seven Platoon out of administrative desire to keep the Jews together. This wasn't anti-Semitism: the British Army was a caring organisation that looked after approved religious minorities. It took, very seriously, its duty of ensuring an enlisted soldier could observe his own religion and often went to great lengths to arrange this. Holtack reflected that it was also because anxious letters from Mrs Cohen had landed on the Colonel's desk, just after their arrival in Ireland, demanding to know if the Army allowed her son to keep kosher and go to Temple on the Sabbath. The colonel had passed them onto Holtack and said "deal with this".

He had gone to the Chaplain, Captain the Reverend Doctor Davies, and explained his dilemma. The Presbyterian Chaplain had nodded, said "aye" a couple of times, then got on the phone and made several calls.

"_paid a deud, bech_" the Chaplain had said. "The area Jewish chaplain's coming over to make himself known, if you want to gather the Sons of Israel together."

He had duly pulled together Cohen, the son of a family who sold schmatter and tailored in Colwyn Bay, and who was certainly entitled to his place in a Welsh regiment, (he'd been born in Colwyn, after all), and Greenberg, a corporal who had rotated to a line infantry regiment after service in Special Forces. Whatever his reasons for asking to join a Welsh regiment, Holtack was pleased to have an experienced NCO with SAS training. He hadn't inquired into the reasons for Greenberg being moved on or asked if he missed special Forces. He was good to have around - he got his section moving and bucked their ideas up. together, Greenberg and Cohen were known as the Israeli Defence Forces, the IDF for short. Individually, they were known as Kosher and Tailor - the latter a tribute to Cohen's profitable sideline in re-tailoring unforms to fit.

To Holtack's surprise, a battle-hardened sergeant-major from the Parachute Regiment, a thickset saturnine man in his early fifties, had turned up. "Moishe Weissmann" he'd said, introducing himself. "I'm not long from final discharge. So I've been training for a few years to be a kantor. The Army gives me time off to study, in return for a few duties."

He saw Holtack's perplexity.

"The kantor leads the sung service in a synagogue."

"I thought that was the rabbi?"

"That's a common mistake. You tend to get both. Rabbi teaches, preaches and reads the lesson. Kantor sings and leads the singing, but also teaches. While I'm studying, they've made me Jewish chaplain to the Forces here. Where are your two members of the Tribe of Saint David?"

BSM Weismann had been good as his word, taking Cohen and Greenberg in hand and looking after their spiritual welfare. As the rest of Seven Platoon pointed out, they were also Lucky Fuckers, as they not only got a twenty-four hour pass Friday night into Saturday, they got to stay with a local Jewish family, got a free meal, and…(with sharp disbelieving intake of breath) they even got a bath, a clean bed to sleep in, _and_ their uniforms laundered.

"'ere, sir. Can I change my religion to Jewish?" demanded Fusilier 47 Wiliams.

"Certainly, forty-seven! If anyone's got a sharp knife, we can do it straight away, while Mr Weismann's near?"

"Not me. You need a rabbi for a briss!" the Para BSM declared, grinning. He was on his rgular Friday afternoon run, picking up Jewish service personnel from various far-flung bases in time to observe the Sabbath.

"And a magnifying glass for Forty-Seven!" somebody called.

"No, you just need Wimbledon staring at your old man for a while. One of those laser-beam withering looks of hers. She'd shrivel it off in no seconds nothing."

"Martina? Word is they're selling her to the Seps,**(3)** so Reagan can use her killer look to stop nukes dead in the air. Who needs Star Wars?"

Holtack smiled and excused himself. He knew there were rumours about Alice Band's gender preferences that would not lie down. She had a plethora of nicknames, and it really didn't help that off-duty she was a keen tennis player. "Wimbledon" was about the mildest. "Martina", after a notoriously gay lady player in a sport where most of the women players were suspected of being lesbians, slightly worse. He suspected "Navratilova" was too long a nickname for comfort.

Holtack, despite everything, suspected he was a little bit in love with her, and wondered what it said about masochistic or futile desires. He suspected that with Alice, not only was he barking up the wrong tree, he might well be in entirely the wrong forest.

Rather than risk listening to any bits of insubordination or disrespect he might have to act upon – the lads were in their own quarters, after all, and he was there under sufferance - he made his way to his own sleeping space.

As an officer, he was entitled to a bit more room than the men, but only the colonel got a bedroom to himself here. The women personnel retreated to a well-defensible double-locked enclave on the top floor that was called either The Nunnery or the Ladies' Locker Room.

All other male officers were officially expected to buddy up, but Holtack had realised to his horror he was expected to share with Lieutenant Green, probably because nobody else would.

Green's nickname was "Gan" for one very good reason.

His feet were condemned areas. They stank. They reeked. It was as if something had curled up and died in his boots. Holtack knew he probably didn't smell fresh either, what with hot water one day in three and one hot shower every fortnight. But Green made a small shared space utterly untenable. Holtack speculated that the all-powerful Alice Band had allocated the room this way as some sort of abstract punishment. Or for her personal amusement.

Either way, he had been idly looking at odd corners and nooks and crannies, but without hope in a building where even the roofspace had been pressed into service.

Then one day he was in C Company office. While waiting for Captain Endion-Williams for a routine chat, he had been making small talk with the company clerk, who Alice had assigned here because she was a native who could speak Welsh. Siân Nash was pretty enough in the typical Welsh way: black hair, oval high-cheekboned face, long lashes – but she was only a private soldier, and dire sanctions applied. And Alice would have had sanctions of her own, for any junior officer incautious enough to try it on with one of her private soldiers.

_Hold on, the outer wall of the office is over there But there's a little ante-room bit there, caused by all those filing cabinets and cupbards that only seem to go back to there. By my reckoning, there's dead space behind them…_

Later that night, Holtack had pulled a filing cabinet slightly to one side and looked behind it. Sure enough, a combination of the original building layout and the internal partitioning needed to set up an internal office had left a lost dead space behind it that was just the right size… and it was accessible from the corridor outside, so he didn't need a key to the Company office…

Holtack moved in, surreptitiously moving his personal effects into the nest he'd discovered, pulling a filing cabinet back so there was no trace of the empty space behind it that was more valuable than gold, telling only Sergeant Williams and his company commander, Tim Endion- Williams. Green got a room to himself, Holtack could sleep at nights (or days) with only the normal Shirt Factory miasma in his nostrils, the smell that permeated everything and everywhere, and everyone was happy. Or happy as they could be.

* * *

That night, as the barracks slept, Fusilier Elwyn Jenkins was on night patrol. alongside Fusilier Iollo "Plant-Life" Evans. Evans, a quiet farm-boy from the far West who habitually spoke few words, in Welsh or English, was thought of by the rest of the Battallion as somebody who had all the mental agility of a clump of grass. Jenkins, another Welsh-speaker from the Nant Conwy, was considered to be the brains of the outfit. In the still dark of the night, relieved to be outside and breathing cleaner air, they heard a skittering and a squeaking.

"Rats" said Plant-Life.

"Can we be surprised?" said Jenkins. "The way we live, I am surprised we have not contracted the Plague!"

THey watched as a three-legged cat trotted awkwardly by, a limp ratty bundle swinging from its mouth.

"Now there's a veteran of a war." said Evans. "Wonder where it lost its leg?"

"We will have to report this" Jenkins said. "the Colonel's paranoid about rats and mice and the M.O. keeps warning that if anything contagious happens here, it'll spread like a grassfire on a dry pasture in August. And if we say there's definite proof of rats, maybe it will get something done about this place!"

"Aye" said Evans, after a thoughtful pause. "The rats will complain about us. They're bound to!"

And then they saw the woman, pushing a supermarket trolley in front of her.

"_Aros!" _called Evans, then remembered. "Stop!"

The two Fusiliers gave chase as the ragged little old lady pushed her trolley around the corner of the building, into the MT Park. But as they turned the corner...

"She has dissappeared!"

"Where could she have gone?"

"_Duw cariad!_ They will never believe this in the morning!"

_"Duw cariad, Iesu Grist a'r Ysbrwyd Lan!" _Religiously-minded Welsh soldiers tend not to swear. They pray instead.

Jenkins paused. Then he smiled.

"Call Sergeant Owens, would you? He'll know what to do!"

They smiled, having passed their dilemma higher up the chain of command.

* * *

_There are young officers, of course, who seem to regard themselves as born to the job, and who cruise through their first platoon inspection with nonchalant interest, conversing airily with the sergeant as they go; possibly Hannibal and Napoleon were like that. But I doubt it. A man would have to be curiously _

_insensitive not to realise that for the first time in his life thirty total strangers are regarding him with interest and suspicion and anxiety, wondering if he is a soft mark or a complete pig, or worse still, some kind of nut. _

_Perhaps I was over-sensitive because I had been more than two years in the ranks myself, and had stood sweating while pinkish young men with one painfully new pip on their shoulders had looked at me. I remembered what I had thought about them, and how we had discussed them afterwards. We had noted their peculiarities, and now I wondered what mine were - what foibles and mannerisms were being observed and docketed, and what they would say about me later. _

_What it all added up to was those thirty people and me; that was why the king had made me "his trusty and well-beloved friend". I wondered, not for the first time, if I was fit for it._

_(Fraser, op cit.)_

1 _**Published as the "McAuslan" trinity of books, which by the way are a known influence on the evolution of Terry Pratchett's NacMacFeegle. The Scottish soldiers GMD-F writes about effectively are a cleaner, neater, more regimented, version of the Feegle. **_

* * *

**(2) **Thick net curtains are standard in British government offices, as if a large bomb were to go off outside, the nets would absorb the blast and glass fragments blowin into the room and thus minimise casualties. It works, too!

(3) I'm pretty sure it wasn't in use at this time and is recent coinage, but (with apologies to North American readers) this is an example of that witty British rhyming slang in action . Sep = Septic Tank = "Yank". Apologies.


	4. The Random Factor

_**Slipping Between Worlds 4**_

_**The High Energy Magic Building, Unseen University. **_

Ponder Stibbons pushed his glasses up his nose and sought to ward off a wave of tiredness and nausea. Although he tried to live more normal hours these days, mainly at his girlfriend's earnest pleading, sometimes old bachelor research scientist habits re-asserted themselves and he'd find himself at work until….

He shook himself. _I can make Somnambulistic Nibbles if I hurry. Johanna said I should at least try and eat something if I'm going to work silly hours. _

He looked down into the monitor that was observing the Roundworld Project. HEX had said there was a Random Factor in there somewhere that was messing up fine-tuned calculations. Asked if he could be a bit more precise, HEX had testily replied that Ponder should go and look up the meaning of Random Variable and associated terms like Wild Card. Ponder had sighed deeply, and had tried to narrow it down, to at least try to predict what the Project was likely to do to them next. There had been unauthorised leakage in both directions lately and the Patrician was keen for this to cease. Especially as it involved those eras of human history that were _gonne-_driven. This caused headaches. Both the Patrician and the Guild of Assassins were watchful and wary of the possibility of _gonne_-technology finding its way back into the Disc via the back door offered by the Roundworld Project.

Therefore only a few accredited researchers were allowed access to this era of Roundworld. As it was also an era of Roundworld where the most interesting things were happening, if not cascading, faster and faster, this shortage of approved researchers was placing a massive crimp in the study of the alternative human civilization that had arisen there. By decree, Vetinari had limited the number of accredited observers from the Guild of Assassins to five, all of whom had been carefully pre-screened for mental instability and potential character defects beforehand. Researchers from the Guild of Artificers were allowed only second-hand, carefully edited, recordings and transcripts of Roundworld history from after the consensus year of 1500. As their job was to look for beneficent technological advances that might be incorporated into the current state of Discworld scientific and technological awareness, there was a lot for them to be getting on with even with the edits. The field of building and civil engineering, for instance, was already benefiting from the steady drip-feed of Roundworld technology. It was Stibbons' job to keep it that way.

Ponder valued the Assassin input: schooled in political science and philosophy as they were, they offered useful insights that made sense of bewildering and illogical decisions made by Roundworld's nation states, and why certain situations were as they were. Wizards simply weren't trained to think that way, outside certain narrow and immediate parameters.

Intractable flash-points with a history steeped in tension, mutual hostility, ethnic clashes, and archaic religious bigotry. Like the Balkans, for instance, or the American Deep South, or Northern Ireland.

Northern Ireland. Ponder shuddered. The only thing even remotely like that to have happened on the Disc had been in Hergen, and that was now largely a thing of the past. He had recently had to bring a disciplinary against several student wizards who had been treating their ability to manipulate Roundworld as if it was some sort of _game._ In fact, they'd been playing Army Versus Insurgents, and had been awarding points according to their ability to manipulate the warring parties into dead cool firefights, with those wicked _gonne_ weapons, in a dead realistic urban combat scenario in this Belfast place. .

Ponder had blasted them with a force and an anger and an authority he had not hitherto realised he possessed, and had summoned Bledlows to drag them to the Arch-Chancellor's office, Ridcully had heard the evidence, had nodded, and said

"It seems to me you boys are born scientific researchers. We've got a couple of places on the University expedition to Ghat that need filling, sails tomorrow, you'll get all the time and space you need in them jungles to complete a research thesis! Well, what are you waitin' for? Go and pack!"

Stibbons took one last look in the Omniscope, which was currently set for the two islands just off the European coast.

_Britain and Ireland. I'm sure of it. That's where the Random Factor is. And it hasn't helped that I had to introduce a little instability there, when I had to roll back time and put right what those two idiots interfered with. People are probably still going to die there. But at least they're taking their own chances and we're not interfering or playing Gods with their lives. _

He sighed. Glenda Sugarbean had resigned as head of the Night Kitchen and gone off into the wilds with Mr Nutt. Ridcully had told her he chose to see it as holiday leave - "you've accumulated a fair bit of leave, m'dear. Let's call it paid leave?" and that there would always be a job she could walk back into. _"And if the damn' Assassins try to poach you, you come to me, d'y'hear, and I'll better their offer!"_

No, Glenda had gone for good, but she'd left her legacy behind, in the form of cooks who'd learned from her. And right now, he fancied a pizza. _It's a sort of Brindisian pie, on a bread base, with no lid._

He tidied down and left.

A little later, HEX made a recording

+++Random factor moving+++

+++Unsure of vector or speed+++

* * *

"Well, it's obviously not a shirt factory any more, Guilty!" said Mrs Tachyon, as she studied the almost unreadable label on the collar of a grimy threadbare old blouse, which said, in small letters ,

_The Gillespie Quality Linen Factory, Londonderry. _

"And those soldiers had _guns_. Not a nice place!"

To evade Evans and Jenkins, she had temporarily moved to 2025, where the Shirt Factory had been converted to luxury flats for the new monied class. People here were deeply asleep and less likely to observe old ladies with shopping trolleys at three in the morning. In fact, they were the sort of people who would become selectively blind, deaf, and oblivious to the presence of street people and Big Issue sellers. Being invisible served Mrs Tachyon very well indeed.

She slumped in the swish glass and chrome doorway of the Gillespie House Luxury Flats Development, looking incongruously out of place. Guilty looked to her, anticipating chips. The shopping trolley waited expectantly. Against all its expectations, it was coming to enjoy this.

"I know, Guilty!" she said, brightening up. "I could use a glass of port. Let's call in at the Crown and Axe, and see if Aggie's in!"

There was a swish, and the strange tableau froze for an instant and faded out of view.

* * *

Philip Holtack awoke sweating and temporarily disorientated, the sound and crushing impact of high-velocity bullets still ringing in his ears. He realised that if he'd died, this was evidently Hell, as he was sitting up in his maggot-bag in his illicit sleeping area at the Shirt Factory. He slapped he chill cold rear plate of a filing cabinet. _Well, that's real. But if this was the Afterlife I'd be complaining._

But then again, so had his being mortally wounded in a shoot-out on Lecky Street. It had just happened, hadn't it? He'd _felt _it.

He reached for his cigarettes, which were also reassuringly real, and tried to sort out reality from fantasy.

_You've been living on your nerves for four months now. People here are actively, if not personally, trying to kill you. You would not be human if it didn't come out as the odd bad dream. _

But it had been so _real… _

The dream had been self-contained, had told a natural story, had covered everything from leaving the Shirt Factory on a normal patrol and slogging it through the streets of the Bogside until we got down to Lecky and Rossville. Then it went wrong…. We bounced these armed robbers, five of them, doing a post office.

This sort of thing didn't usually happen. You heard the shots and the screaming from a few streets away, raced to the scene, only to find they were gone just that minute. So all you could do was clear down for the woollybacks . But the timing could not have been better, as if somebody had organised it that way.

Holtack had barely got the first couple of words of the absurd yellow card warning out when the shooting had started; one of the robbers had fired wide and missed Fusilier Ruijterman by a mile. That was enough – war had been declared and the Toms were more than happy to play catch-up. Corporal Greenberg had efficiently, and with every sign of job satisfaction, snapped off a single shot that had sent a mark tumbling and rolling down the road, his pistol falling into the gutter, with the last pedestrians and civilians scrambling for cover. Then Fusilier Parry, going for cover too late, had been hit, slumping with barely a sigh. Two more of the robbers, impeded by cash-bags, were trying to get into the getaway car. This was coned with fire by Rujiterman and Hughes; the driver slumped dead at the wheel and one of the men trying to scramble in jerked and collapsed into the back of the car, his legs absurdly dangling out. But they'd each expended virtually a full magazine on automatic, against standing orders. And those forty rounds had to end up somewhere.

To his horror, Holtack watched as several shots went well over and felled two women running for cover. _Shit happens, _a little callous voice said inside his head. _Yes, and it's going to be dumped on you later! _

Without conscious thought, he was running for the wounded Parry, but a look down said it was hopeless. He knew he was doomed, anyway. His men had shot widely and heedlessly. In Derry. And they'd negligiently killed two civilians. It had to be Ruijterman: Holtack had always had mixed feelings about the man, who'd already served five years fighting a nasty little war in what had been his native Rhodesia. _Save what you can. Find out what job openings are going to be there for a subaltern who had to resign his commission in disgrace. But see to the job in hand first…_

Corporal Greenberg was taking the surrender of one of the gunmen, beckoning him to drop his weapon and come in with hands raised.

"I'm sorry, Parry." Holtack said, knowing this wasn't nearly enough. And then the fifth gunman appeared in front of him. Holtack raised his rifle, knowing he was moving too late and too slow. He fired. To his consternation, the round missed. _You really _**can't**_ hit the City wall from ten feet, can you? _Then, as time slowed and the gunman, his lips drawn back in feral rage and fear, fired back, Holtack remembered._ You never took it to the Armourer, did you? I bet the muzzle was knocked out of true yesterday..._

…and as three Fusiliers fired together, still too late and too slow, Holtack felt an enormous carthorse kick him twice in the chest. And he realised , as he and the last gunman rolled away from each other in opposite directions, that dishonourable discharge was no longer an issue. It'd just be a funeral with full military honours.

And then he'd woken up, from a dream that had been as real and as concrete and as tangible as anything else he'd experienced.

_Everything you fear in one handy package. A shoot-out. At least one dead Tom. The lads – especially that psycho Riujterman – getting carried away and not caring where the bullets end up. Officers have been cashiered for less. What do you say to the relatives of the civvies who got slotted? "I'm sorry. Accidents happen". Oh, and my own death. And a feeling that they'd somehow just been pawns in a bigger game. _Holtack had seen some computer games – there was at least one Spectrum console in the rest room that plugged into an old TV – and he'd watched the crudely presented sprites hopping round crudely defined two-dimensional landscapes, fighting wobbly ill-defined battles and dying to order. To his amusement, he'd discovered there was a "save game" function on some of the more sophisticated games, that allowed the player to rewind his life and resume play from an earlier point in the game, as if "death" had never happened. They'd joked, with the usual black humour, about Northern Ireland being nothing more than a mad Japanese computer game with impenetrable inscrutable rules, and out there somewhere was some spotty kid manipulating them on a games console as if they had no free will of their own.

Looking back on an extraordinarily vivid dream at the coldest and most impressionable part of the day, Holtack didn't find the idea as funny any more.

"Game over, insert coin" he murmured, lighting a cigarette with a shaky hand.

_Two months. Only two months. Then we're back to barracks wondering where they send us next. Germany? But there was talk of a joint exercise with the US Marines, which means we might get to see America._

He thought of the Regiment's unique association with the American Marines. _In 1776, we surrendered to the Minutemen. In 1812, the newborn American Marines surrendered to us. One-all. After that we decided to call it a draw and fight on the same side. But it might be Cyprus. The drawback is, the General expects top marks for good behaviour, and the moment this lot land in the fleshpots of Ayia Napia after an Irish tour, and start drinking and sandratting, the charge sheet just mounts up. Hong Kong? Too much to ask for. And those bastards in First Battalion were the garrison there till not long ago. Gib? Probably not. Back here again after a short interval? Wouldn't be surprised. _

Then the dream surfaced again. Holtack shivered. Seeing the two running women go down in a hail of stray bullets… (he almost thought he heard a voice saying _bad luck! You lose points for that!")_ and then the sledgehammer, numbing, impacts on his flak jacket….

He heard running feet in the corridor.

"This cannot be right!"

"Sergeant Williams isn't never wrong, mun."

Then a slapping on the filing cabinets, ringing like out-of-tune bells. He sighed, and reached for his boots.

"Mr Holtack!"

"Here. Just push that cabinet aside, third from the left. It's empty, that's the bedroom door."

Fusiliers Williams and Povey. Grinning as they saw their officer's informal bedroom. He'd made himself at home, with uniform items on clothes-hangers, and a disused filing cabinet pressed into service as personal locker. The Japanese futon he'd asked his rich (by comparison) sister to send him cushioned his sleeping bag, and comforts like books and cigarettes were near to hand.

"You jammy bastard… sir!"

"Well, _you_ try messing with Mr Green. What's up?"

"Alarm, sir. This intruder people keep seeing in the yard. Mr Otway-Williams is fed up with all the reports and wants the whole of C Company out there looking. He says its only fair as Eight Platoon are the ones who keep seeing ghosts. Says we can all go ghostbusting, and sort it out once and for all!"

Holtack grinned and carried on dressing. He didn't feel like sleeping, anyway. He picked up his helmet and rifle, and the three of them passed through the sleeping barracks humming

_If there's something strange – in the neighbourhood – who are you gonna call? _

"_C Company!"_

* * *

Mrs Gammage was what, in the rest of the multiverse, might be considered to be an elderly bag lady down on her luck. But she'd lived in the Shades long enough to have formed a deep attachment to the area, and certainly nobody bothered her or troubled her life. Not since those burglars had been found drained of blood in the alley. Bad news travels fast.

Agnes Gammage was one of two people who still persisted in calling the pub by its old name of the Crown and Axe. She still enjoyed a small port, or a schooner**(x)** of ale, in the snug, where she'd always gone with Charlie, when he was alive.

The pub had since gone through a change of management. Now Biers, its target clientele all knew to look out for Mrs Gammage. Old and poor of eyesight, it was a matter of detail (that she couldn't see) whether the courtesy drink came from Igor the barman, the group of bogeymen over there in the shadows, Sergeant Angua von Überwald (the Watch werewolf) Miss Sally the vampire, or that nice polite young black boy from Darkest Howondaland, aren't some of them nice civilised people? (The nice polite civilised young black boy, a resident were-leopard at the Kwa'Zulu Embassy, had soon cottoned on to the fact that if you wanted to call Biers your local, you did your turn at looking after Mrs Gammage) . As often as not, the free drink came with a handful of small coin that she could pretend was her change from fifty pence, and which would buy her the makings of a dinner the next day.

Tonight, she'd brought a friend, and she was in earnest, if incoherent, conversation with the black-clad woman who was introduced as Mrs Tachyon. Igor had taken it philosophically: he'd also accepted the useless small coin that Mrs Tachyon had proffered for her drink, if only for the curiosity value.

_Ten pence? Queen Elizabeth the Second? What country are __**these**__ from? And the date's well out – this is dated 2007… and this big thick copper has a Queen Victoria on the back, she looks constipated, poor woman, frowning like that. Dated 1898. _

Igor shrugged. He'd ask at Dave's Emporium, as the pin and stamp dealer also had a sideline in collectable coins. There'd be a book there… anticipating Dave would attach a value to them, he sent a fistful of assorted Ankh-Morpork currency back, so the old girl would have some valid coin for this town.

The basket and Guilty were outside in the aley. They'd be safe there – nobody would try to steal from outside Biers. And nobody would steal a shopping trolley with Guilty in it.

Angua von Überwald frowned. Something didn't feel right. She didn't begrudge Mrs Gammage making a friend, but that wheeled, wiry, somehow _made, _basket-thing outside… it resonated with something she'd heard from before her time in the Watch. There had been a plague of them, hadn't there?**(z)**

She shrugged. She wasn't inclined to get too close to a bag-lady's bags. They reeked of _cat_, for one thing to her werewolf nose, and something had growled at her. If there had been a plague of the things, a few would have been left over, she reasoned, and it was only right she'd see one every so often. Maybe nothing to get excited about.

But even so, her sense of foreboding was clanging…

* * *

**(x) **A "schooner" is a measure of beer possibly unknown outside Birmingham, England, and tends to be the preserve of elderly ladies in pubs. It is exactly one-third of a pint.

**(z) **Identifying footnotes with random letters, as I'm probably going to have to add more here and I can think about numerical order afterwards. Angua is thinking about the events of** Reaper Man. **

**_Items of British Army slang:_**

**_maggot, doss-bag - - _**the issue sleeping bag.

**_Bundook (originally Afghan) - _**rifle

_**Wooly, woolyback - **_civilian policeman, esp RUC.

_**Sep (as before) - **_Yank, American. Too good not to use, although probably not known before 1990 and First Gulf War.


	5. DisOrientation

_**Slipping Between Worlds 5**_

_**Chepstow Barracks, Monmouthshire, Wales. Shortly before embarking for Ireland. **_

_Apart from the three afternoons devoted to Games (which in our battalion inevitably meant football, no matter what the time of year), the most popular event of Twelve Platoon's working week was undoubtedly the Education Period. Not that they were especially thirsty for academic improvement, but the period came last on Friday afternoon, at the end of the week's soldiering…._

…_it was a fairly torpid audience that I used to find awaiting me in the platoon lecture room, all thirty-six of them jammed into the tweo back rows, snoozing gently against the whitewashed wals, whence Sergeant Telfer would summon them to get to the front and wake their bloody selves up. When they had obeyed, blinking and reluctant, I would announce:_

"_Right. Education Period. Pay attention, smoke if you wish to. Now what we're going on with this afternoon is…"_

_The formula never varied; it was as settling and comforting as a prayer. Whatever the subject, be it Care Of The Feet or The British Way and Purpose (whatever that was, something to do with why we'd fought the war, as if anyone cared) , it was invariably introduced as "what we are going on with", Why, I don't know: it probably dated form Marlborough's time, and it had been the signal for successive legions of young British soldiers to make themselves comfortable and sleep with their eyes wide open, dreaming about Nell Gwynne or Lily Langtry or Rita Hayworth (depending on the era), while their platoon commander gasses on unheeded. _

_There is in all probability a whole generation of elderly men in these islands who, if you whisper "what we are going on with" in their ears, will immediately relax, with an expression of feigned interest in their glassy eyes, prior to dropping off. That's what Army Education does to you._

(George McDonald Fraser, _**The Constipation of O'Brien, **_a short story in _**The Sheikh and the Dustbin**_)

With the social improvements instituted after World War Two as part of the Welfare State, not least the vast improvement in basic literacy combined with an end to conscription, the role and importance of the British Army's Education Corps had diminished greatly. Once a means of taking illiterate soldiers and providing remedial education in basic literacy and numeracy, so they could function to the expected level, the RAEC now concerned itself largely with providing schooling for Army children in barracks, refining and monitoring skills training to better educated soldiers, and a largely understated third function which these days the Army also called "Orientation".

But, Holtack reflected, some things never change. Orientation still happened last thing on a Friday and began with the time-hallowed words "What we are going on with today."

As he had been painstakingly taught, Orientation was emphatically not "_indoctrination_". He had made the mistake of using the word in a class at Sandhurst, after noting from sample class-notes that we were expected to project a rather one-sided _Daily Telegraph_ view of the world to the soldiery.

Among other apercus, such as "only ever give them one point of view. Multiple choices confuse and demoralise them", he had been told in no uncertain terms that _indoctrination_, Mr Holtack, only applies to Armies in the Warsaw Pact who have political commissars to enforce the State's view on the men! The British Army does not and never has _indoctrinated_. As an officer, you will seek to guide, lead and gently _orientate_ your men to the appropriate point of view. Is that distinction clearly understood?

Seeing Regimental Sergeant-Major McCaffrey's moustaches twanging with indignation, and remembering that officer cadets were extremely lowly creatures on the food chain, Holtack had conceded the point. McCaffrey had still doled out a punishment drill for his having spoilt the Major's equanimity, though.

Holtack sighed away the bad memory, and looked out over an expectant Seven Platoon. This was going to be one of the bad ones, he could feel it. Especially with the new Fusilier sitting there, the slightly suntanned one, over-age for a new recruit, who projected all the look of an expectant vulture. After Alice Band had completed the platoon assignations for the new men out of basic training, Holtack had been left with more than a suspicion that as the most recently-arrived junior officer, who didn't quite know the ropes yet, Seven Platoon was being gleefully used as the repository for all the awkward, or just odd, private soldiers. And this new man, Ruijterman, was stretching the nationality qualifications somewhat for a Welsh regiment…

_Two questions were barred at education periods – religion and politics. In fact, they could be mentioned, provided they weren't, in the Army's mysterious phrase, discussed "as such" – a distinction which meant nothing when Lieutenant MacKenzie, a product of Fettes and the grouse-moors, and politically somewhere to the right of Louis XIV, got embroiled during a lecture (on "Useful Hobbies", of all things) with his platoon sergeant_. _Sergeant McCaw was in civilian life a trades unionist and Communist Party official on Clydeside… the subsequent exchange, according to those who witnessed it, had not been held to be conducive to military good order, with the platoon Jocks, sensing mirth, egging on their betters with cries of "Kenny's the wee man!" and "Get tore in for ra proletariat, McCaw!" So politics we avoided gratefully. Foe one thing, the men knew far more about it than we did._

(G-McD-F, op cit. _Who goes on to describe the calamitous effects of discussing the Protestant-Catholic divide in a room full of Glaswegian soldiers.)_

But sometimes, it was inevitable. Holtack took a deep breath.

"What we are going on with today. Is South Africa."

It had been decreed that British soldiers should be given the official line on geopolitical issues. An interfering Brigadier had visited and inspected, and had tested the men's knowledge of current affairs, only to find that in his opinion it was abysmal. An order had been issued that Orientation periods should find time for issues such as South Africa, Israel, and reinforcing the approved line on the Falkland Islands.

Holtack had attempted Israel the previous week, to get it out of the way. It had not been a success. Fusilier Cohen had hotly disputed the terminology and had argued that the "West Bank" and "the Gaza Strip" did not exist, and were in fact anti-Israeli constructs. Samaria and its fellow territories were Israel's by right of conquest and belonged in perpetuity to _Yeretz'Isroael, _regardless of the decisions forced in the United Nations by a perfidious Arab majority.

Holtack had mildly pointed out that this put Israel in a minority of one and the rest of the world didn't see it that way. Britain, he reminded the platoon, did not recognise an Israeli government based in occupied Jerusalem and still made a point of maintaining its embassy in the old internationally recognised capital, Tel Aviv.

So why then is your _consulate_ in Jerusalem ten times bigger than your _embassy_ in Tel Aviv, Cohen had demanded.

"_Whose_ consulate, Fusilier? " Holtack had asked. "Surely as a British citizen, yours too!"

It had got worse. In the ensuing heated discussion (and Holtack breathed a sigh of relief that no British Asian soldiers had – yet – been posted to Seven Platoon), he heard the treasonous admission that both Cohen and Corporal Greenberg, when their enlistment periods were up, would be off to the Israeli Consulate to offer their services to the Israeli Defence forces. In fact, Greenberg already had – a soldier with British Special Forces experience would have been snapped up on the spot. This had been a moment of illumination for Holtack. _No wonder the SAS kicked him out, then. Security risk. He's just serving out his time in a normal infantry regiment until he can get a honourable discharge. And then it's straight to the Israeli Embassy to sign on again. _

Having reminded both that going to a foreign embassy to offer your services to their Army whilst serving in the British forces is _at least_ a court-martial offence, and he had chosen to go selectively deaf for a while just then, he had got on to the birth of Israel and the British Mandate. And then a new row had broken out, about his description of some of the founding fathers of Israel as a bunch of murderous terrorists, look at the King David Hotel bombing and the undeclared war until we pulled out in 1949.

_This is one good reason while the Communists are on a hiding to nothing in this country, _Holtack thought. _Imagine a People's Army of the Socialist Republic of Great Britain, and some poor hapless sod like me is a political commissar trying to brainwash this cross-selection of the working masses. Ninety per cent of the time they'll tune out a boring drone coming from the front of the class, and the remaining ten they'll argue like hell and won't believe a word you say on general principles. No soldier in the world has a bullshit detector more acute than the British. You'd want to hand in your copy of Marx, you really would. _

And now he was expected, on the basis of general knowledge, his readership of the Mess newspapers and magazines, and hasty research, to explain South Africa to them. To a platoon that included Riujterman. _Ah well, it's what I'm paid for. _

* * *

He recalled Company office, where Tim Endion-Williams and himself had interviewed the batch of new recruits assigned to C Company_. _Despite a pedigree going a long way back and being the heir to a manor house and estate in the Flintshire back-country, Tim was a fairly liberal Old Etonian, Old Army who had gone straight to the family regiment after leaving school. Holtack envied him the ease with which he breezed through life with every confidence and every expectation of his place in the ranks of the people who made decisions.

"Five years in the Rhodesian Army, I see." Tim had said, reading from the file. "Rose to the rank of Sergeant. Saw action in the civil war."

The unspoken question hung in the air. Ruijterman answered it in a clipped and harsh Southern African accent.

"I bought out when they renamed the country _Zimbabwe_, sir. It was no longer to my taste."

Captain Endion-Williams nodded. Zimbabwe had become independent of Britain a few years before, passing from rebellious white minority rule to its new black rulers.

"Followed by two years in the South African Defence Forces. Action in Namibia and Mozambique. Desert _and_ jungle skills! They could be very useful to us when we do the appropriate training. And you left South Africa?"

"I could see it going the same way es Rhodesia, sir. You cen see the crecks even today. I give the old way five or ten years et the most, before the blecks take over."

"So you came to Britain, citing a grandmother born in Merthyr Tydfil as proof of your entitlement to British nationality. Which indirectly is why the Recruitment Office sent you to us. Why did you want to join the British Army?"

"I spent a year es a civilian. Thet was not to my taste either. I believe I belong in uniform, sir!"

Tim nodded.

"Well, we're glad to have you. You start at the bottom as a Fusilier like everyone else. Keep your record clean, and with your experience you might start building up stripes again within a year, although no promises. Oh, and you will be expected to work with black soldiers, we do have a few. If you have any issues, say so now!"

"None, sir. Bleck soldiers, _loyal _blecks, served in both my armies. They were brave men and we appreciated them!"

He added

"It's the bleddy bleck _politicians_ I cannot stand!"

Ruijterman was dismissed.

Tim turned to Holtack.

"Any issues, my Guardian-reading comrade?" he inquired.

* * *

Holtack was thought of as eccentric, as in an Officers' Mess where the morning paper of preference was the _**Daily Telegraph**_, with the _**Daily Mail**_ provided for the wives, and for those less literate subalterns who liked less words and more pictures,

Holtack read the _**Guardian,**_ and the _**Daily Mirror**_ **(1)**whenever he could sneak a copy in without the more reactionary officers having a fit of the vapours. He had once introduced a copy of _**Socialist Worker**__**(2)**_ as an experiment, just to see who he could catch out reading it. Some surprising officers, such as the Chaplain and the second-in-command, had been caught. But the joke had rebounded when a visiting Major from the Regiment's territorial battalion, who in civilian life was also a Conservative MP in a north Wales constituency, had spotted it and played Hell about the disgraceful politicisation of the Mess. Holtack had been summoned to the Colonel's office for a brief chat.

"Let me see if I understand, sir. A major from the STAB**(3)** battalion, who is in civilian life a member of parliament and a rather right-wing supporter of Margaret Thatcher, is shouting the odds about politics being dragged into the Officers' Mess. Is it possible either he or I have missed something here?"

Colonel Otway-Williams drew a huge breath. Behind him, Captain Alice Band glowered at Holtack. She'd had to listen to the complaint and calm the incensed Major down. She was not a happy Adjutant.

"Get rid of it, Philip. This Mess will tolerate the _**Guardian**_, and it's big enough, and we're all mature enough, to accept the odd _**Daily Mirror**_ and even the _**New Statesman(4)**_ as additions to our available literature. But a word of advice. As you have no doubt realised by now, the British Army is an old time small-c conservative institution. There are limits, and this is one of them. Get rid of it. If some of your opinions are divergent, keep them to yourself! You're also fined a large gin and tonic for me and a _very_ big pink gin for Captain Band. She will, I think, refrain from ripping your throat out if you oil hers. And be careful. You _do_ know that Major wanted to call in the Gestapo**(5)**? You're a good officer, despite your quirks, and I'm damned if I'm losing you. Dismissed!"

Holtack had assigned the Rhodesian to Darkie Williams' section as an ongoing test for both. To his relief, Ruijterman submitted to a black corporal without objection or hesitation, and Lance-Corporal Williams, realising he was commanding a man with ten times his experience who had once been a sergeant, took care to look after an asset, sometimes discreetly consulting him and using the older man's experience intelligently. Ruijterman also took care to get on with the two Jewish soldiers in the platoon, which was a relief to Holtack; he'd noted from his reading and research that apartheid towards blacks went hand-in-hand with anti-semitic opinion. (He'd read that a substantial minority of South Africans during WW2 considered their country was fighting on the wrong side, citing former friendly relations with Germany, and an opinion that this Hitler fellow might have some good ideas. Indeed, his separation of the Jews from decent white people is almost like apartheid, why should _we_ of all people object to that?**(5)**)

The Orientation on South Africa wasn't, in the event, as fearsome as Holtack thought. Riujterman had raised a couple of points of fact, but had taken care to be respectful and diffident, as if he were a sergeant straightening out a young but well-meaning officer. Holtack saw the frown setting in on Sergeant Williams' face as he realised the implications of this. _You wants to be Sergeant, boy? Not while I'm here, mun! You know bees? My old grandfather in Carmarthen kept bees. You never gets two Queen bees in a hive as there's room for only one! And to avert any misunderstandings, boyo bach, I is the Queen Bee in this here hive!"_

"Geopolitically, the West _needs _South Africa." Holtack had lectured them. This wasn't part of the official lecture, but what the hell.

"As long as there is a threat of global war with, er, Orange forces**(7)**, South Africa is too vitally situated, too strategic. It would be needed as an air and naval base, to deny both the Indian Ocean and south Atlantic to, er, Orange forces. The price we pay for that undeclared alliance is that we don't shout too loudly about apartheid. I believe Mrs Thatcher has frequently said as much, in as many words".

He grinned as the roars of derision faded. A lot of those lads were form coalmining and steelworking areas of Wales and were deeply unhappy about Thatcher's proposed cuts to both industries. He paused, and allowed Sergeant Williams to reassert order.

Rjuiterman had personally added that he had fought alongside too many black soldiers to have negative ideas about them. They were lovely people and he respected both their fighting ability and their loyalty, although God knows we give them little to be loyal to. He would rank the old Rhodesian army right up there alongside the world's best, man for man, and that included its black soldiers.

Holtack breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps his Southern African Welshman wasn't as bad a bargain as he'd feared.

And next week – the Falkland Islands. Holtack had heard a lot of Welsh people had gone out to South America in the old days. Indeed, a proportion of Argentinian prisoners of war had been called Williams and Owen and Jones. He shuddered. What was the betting that just for him, by this time next week he'd be commanding a south American Welshgman who would hotly argue the case about _las islas Malvinas…_

But orientation was over for another week, and he could breathe easy. He thought again. That tour of Northern Ireland was looming closer. There'd surely be Orientations before that, to ensure the Toms all knew the official government line as to why they were there?

* * *

**(1) **In the early 1980's, the Daily Mirror was a genuinely left-wing tabloid newspaper that regularly ran investigative reports and thought-provoking left analysis of the day's events. It was conscientiously trying to reposition itself as a politically left version of the Daily Mail. All this seems incredible in 2010, when the Mirror is just another bloody cheap tabloid with no real content and all the old guts ripped out of it…

**(2) **An extremely left-wing newspaper from a political party advocating revolution and the imposition of a state run on sound Trotskyist principles.

**(3)** Again with apologies to Territorial Army soldiers who are proving their worth and excellence in places like Afghanistan. In the era of which I write, the Army's part-time reservists were dismissed as STABs – Stupid Territorial Army Bastards. Things were different then.

**(4) **A magazine of left opinion. Its conservative opposite number, which the Mess happily paid for, was **The Spectator. **

**(5)**An informal nickname for the plainclothes Special Investigations Branch of the Royal Military Police.

**(6) **An opinion still voiced by such as Eugene Terre'Blanch in the esarly years of this century, as he waved his swastika-like flag of the Afrikaaner Broederbond.

**(7) **Some explanation. In large-scale military exercises in Germany, it was held to be provocative and possibly foolhardy to take the Army tasked with invading West Germany from the East and call it "Red". This might either have offended the Russians or given them ideas. "Orange" was used instead, as a euphemism.


	6. First Leakages

_**Slipping Between Worlds 6**_

_**Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork.**_

Sergeant Angua von Überwald sought out Sergeant Colon at the evening Watch handover.

"Something to ask you, Fred." she said, drawing him to a discreet corner. "It might be something or nothing, but it struck me you were the man to ask for advice."

Flattered, Fred Colon said "Well, if I can help, miss!"

She nodded.

"You told me once that just before my time here, there was this really bizarre set of events in the city. Things died but kept on moving, dead people became zombies at a far faster rate than usual, and it all turned out in the end to be down to Death taking a holiday, according to the wizards."

Fred nodded, enthusiastically.

"I remember, miss! The Night of the Living Dead, when Reg Shoe got all the Undead he could find and marched, well _lurched_, them out of the City. There was this…." Fred's face creased with honest thought. "…this _thing_, right, what had appeared outside the City. It had already overpowered all the wizards and bent them to its evil will, so all we had left was the Thin Grey-Green Line to save us all. In my opinion Reg ought to have got a medal!"

"What sort of thing, Fred? Start at the beginning." She prompted him.

"Well, miss, me and Throat Dibbler found all these glass globe things in one of his storerooms. We din't know what they were, but Throat discovered people dint need persuading to buy them. Then we discovered they was _eggs_, miss. _City_ eggs."

"City eggs?" Angua frowned. This wasn't making sense.

"If you ask me, miss, it was all part of the Thing's cunning plan! 'Cos people from all over town bought 'em. And when they hatched out, they was everywhere!"

"And _they_ were?"

"They hatched into these diabolical metal wire basket things, miss! On wheels! They was terrifying!"

_Ah. _

"They all marched out of town, miss. Thousands upon thousands of them. And 'cos people was using them to carry things in, of course they chased after. So when they all got together, all the ones the wizards didn't kill, and …" Colon shuddered "….and reformed into this big hive sort of thing with shops in, it had a captive audience!"

"But they were beaten?"

"In the end, miss. Reg Shoe and Undead people, like yourself and Miss Cake, weren't affected by the evil siren music what it put out to lure them. They beat it."

Angua paused.

"Fred," she said, "If I told you I'd actually _seen_ one of those wire baskets on wheels in the city, last night, what would _you _do?"

"I'd go to Mr Vimes!" Fred said, unhesitatingly. "That's a Code Twenty-Three if ever I heard of one!"

* * *

"Ear-defenders, Mr Holtack!"

He nodded thanks, and slipped on the large clumsy bright yellow ear-muffs. The Army bought them on the "one-size-fits-all" principle, and even when adjusted, they fitted slightly slackly on his head. The British Army was like this: as a Government department like any other these days, it had to accept that it had a health and safety duty to its employees. The continual crack of a rifle so near to its user's ear had been demonstrated to have an adverse effect on hearing later in life. For specialised trades like artillery and mortarmen, it was even more pronounced.

So, acknowledging a duty of care to its soldiers, the Army had decreed that outside combat, any soldier firing a rifle for any reason, or who was exposed to continual fire, should wear ear defenders. Holtack, who had studied some of the classical battles, wondered if the Germans and the Russians at Stalingrad, where battles had raged for weeks in factories and cellars, had called a hasty local truce before setting to.

_wait a second, Ivan! We've got to get our ear-defenders on first, or this could be bad for our health!_

_What are yours like, Fritz? Ours are absolute rubbish! They don't fit! _

He shook the thought out of his head. He liked finding excuses to loaf around in the Armoury. This was set up, for necessary reasons, in the cellar of the Shirt Factory and needed a lot of space. The business of checking, repairing and maintaining weapons which took a thousand knocks in the everyday business of policing Northern Ireland was a painstaking one.

For security reasons, the Battalion's allocation of small-arms ammo was kept under lock and key down here, as were the spare weapons, both legally declared and "unofficial", which any Army unit accumulates over time. Upstairs, the Colonel had decreed that all ranks should carry their allocated personal weapon with them at all times and not leave it unattended. However, he insisted all magazines and immediate-access ammo be kept under lock and key, to be issued only in emergency or just prior to a patrol. The potential for accidents – men with personal weapons and ammo – was just too great to contemplate. And with so many men and women living in such close proximity – over-close – it took a lot of forbearance and goodwill to stop arguments starting. Give them loaded guns as well… Holtack shuddered.**(1)** 1

And then the third category of problem, which occurred from time to time among soldiers depressed and browned off by it all, was self-inflicted injury, seen in all wars as a fast ticket out. It meant dishonourable discharge and maybe even a spell in Colchester, but every so often somebody took that route despite all attempts to prevent it.

Holtack looked to his rifle, which was secured by forestock and butt in a clamp with the butt of the stock at shoulder height. He had been watching the armoury sergeant running various calibrating tools all over it to double-check that the vulnerable exposed barrel was still perfectly straight and had not developed a subtle bend from true. After his bad dream, Holtack wanted to be absolutely sure. Being naturally left-handed, he had had no problem at all with the old Lee-Enfield .303 and the Bren gun that had been the mainstays of the Cadet Force. Both could be fired from the left shoulder, albeit not with the speed a right-handed rifleman could attain. There were even examples of both down here in the Armoury. Some of ther older vehicles had had Bren Guns fitted for close-in defence; Army thinking was that an older machine-gun capable of firing only three to five round bursts would be less destructive than the GPMG in an urban situation calling for minimal firepower. . The new GPMG – in its origins the Bren's WW2 adversary, the German MG42 – was a weapon for _volume_ of fire, long bursts from a fixed mounting, theoretically capable of a thousand rounds a minute. It was thought of as overkill for Northern Irish city streets. The Bren was about economy and accuracy of fire.

The old Mark Four Lee-Enfields, which had served the Army since 1911, had been re-chambered for 7.62 rounds, and were used by trained snipers. Sometimes, in a Northern Irish context, with efficient lethality.

And then there were the baton round dischargers, the plastic bullet dispensers, the riot control guns…Holtack could have explored and asked questions all day.

But he was here for his personal weapon. He'd been rated as "adequate" on the SLR – a weapon designed unambiguously and militantly for right-handers. Try to fire it left-handed and it spat red-hot cartridge cases right in your face. But continual practice and application had made him into a reluctant right-hander. His instructors had noted he was measurably far better on weapons that could be fired left-handed, and had accepted his problem with the SLR was down to his "frankly being cack-handed, sir".

"Never mind, sir" the Armoury sergeant said, cheerfully, "I hear they're working on a replacement for the SLR, a British-designed one, and you know what _that_ means."

Holtack nodded, gloomily. Officers' Mess gossip had featured reports on the proposed new wonder-weapon. They weren't good.

"It'll be a pig to build, a bitch to maintain, a whore to clean, and by all accounts it jams solid every other shot."**(2)**

"But at least they're going to be tailored to the soldier so awkward sods like you, no offence sir, can fire them left-handed. Now isn't _that_ something to look forward to?"

The Armoury Sergeant, a man whose skill justified the Army keeping him on till well into his fifties, smiled benignly. It was hard to take offence.

He then offered Holtack the ear-defenders and a chance to fire his rifle, off the clamp, down the range. Despite pressures on space, the armourers needed a rifle range in order to test weapons. Almost the whole length of the cellar for half its width had been dedicated to an indoor rifle range, the advantages being that it was underground, and a very thick layer of sandbags could be erected against the end wall to absorb the impacts. Being underground, with a soundproofed ceiling, also muffled the shots – from above, all that could be heard was a distant _thump!-thump!-thump!_ noise. There was also no chance of a stray round missing the target entirely and hitting some unlucky person up to a mile away, as had happened at overground Army ranges.**(3)**

Holtack pulled the stock into his right shoulder, took position, breathed out, and eased the trigger. Eighty yards away, a standard target flapped as the round struck it.

"Dead on" said the sergeant, approvingly. "Now if only you could do that _without_ the clamp…"

* * *

"Are you absolutely sure?" said Commander Vimes, taking a deep draw of his cigar.

"Completely, sir. And it was outside the front door of Biers. I didn't care to get too close as it _reeked._ And some sort of creature was guarding it."

Vimes groaned.

"It's a Code Twenty-Three, then."**(4)**

"It might help, sir, if I could go to the site of this..Hive, if it's still there, and see what we might be dealing with.." Angua offered.

Vimes nodded.

"Do it, would you? Take Sally and Cheery. There might not be much there these days, as I know Harry King's boys picked it clean. I remember Harry saying it was rich in this light, strong, metal that's an absolute pig to refine from its ore."

"An aluminium goldmine, he said, sir!" Fred Colon remarked.

"What's it used for?" Vimes asked.

"Apparently the Dwarves make a lightweight armour out of it. But unless it's layered with steel, a _really_ good axe swipe still gets through it." said Angua. "Anyone who figures out how to make light, reliable, body armour is going to be a _millionaire_!"

"You'd better get out there while there's still daylight to see by." Vimes said. Then, realising, he added "A werewolf, a vampire and a dwarf. You don't need daylight, do you?"

"It helps, sir!" said Cheery, who walked in with her alchemy bag. "What do I need to know?"

Angua briefed her, and she nodded.

"Code Twenty-Three. Explore vast unknown alien life-form, presumed dead, and check for signs of its returning to life. If living, alert Wizards. Should we take Reg? He knows what he's looking for, after all, if he was there last time."

Vimes kicked himself for overlooking the patently bleeding obvious, and issued an order to recall Constable Shoe to the Yard. Soon after, the Watch detail, escorted by Fred Colon, left on its mission.

Vimes nodded to Sergeant Pessimal.

"Just to cover our backs, put this in the evening log report for the Palace, would you? I'm sure Vetinari already knows, rot him, but he'll need to know _we_ know as well!"

* * *

Feeling tired from the early-morning search for the old lady and the shopping trolley, who at least eight different sets of guards had reported seeing inside the Shirt Factory perimeter where she had no business to be, and having checked his rifle to his full satisfaction, Holtack set his alarm clock to remind him there was an O-Group at seven to brief evening patrols. He tried to sleep, the full cacophony of an Army base in daytime ringing in his ears. But an uncharacteristically gloomy feeling was settling upon him.

He'd heard and read of the phenomena of normally well-adjusted men getting a sudden cold presentiment of their own impending deaths. It had cropped up again and again in the literature of both world wars. An otherwise cheerful and extrovert biplane pilot in the first war had gone very quiet and withdrawn just before his last patrol. He had conferred to a friend "I'm afraid I'm not going to make it back from this one". Three Germans had bounced him and shot him down, only a mile from his home airfield. His mind ran through a plethora of other similar stories.

Suddenly Holtack wished he wasn't so well read. Ignorance might be better than this. He drifted into an uneasy sleep. His dream was a rambling confused affair where wizards straight out of Tolkien, only more gaudily dressed, were assisting in searching the MT sheds for the old bag-lady with the Tesco trolley. He glimpsed Alice Band, dressed in strict Edwardian-looking clothes, but all in black, as if she were mourning a death. He heard a voice intoning _Do not meddle in the affairs of Wizards, as it makes them soggy and hard to light. _A yellow submarine surfaced in Lough Foyle and an American voice from the conning tower asked him if he were George Dorn…**(5) **and the most perplexing voice of all, just before he fell into blackness, said **"Wellcome to Ankh-Morpork, Cyttie of Onne Thousandde Surprises!"**

* * *

Angua paused in her exploration of the site of the Hive. Nobody had built on this patch of ground, well outside the city walls, as local belief had it that it was haunted and fouler than usual. Harry King's boys had indeed picked the surface clean, but Sally had found a few scraps of wire mesh and a wheel and half a handle, that looked like parts of one of those blasted baskets.

To her wolf nose, there had been life here: but unimaginable alien life, smelling tinny and metallic and _acidic. Not natural smells, not nice smells. _

Reg Shoe looked distinctly ill at ease.

"I bet you never expected to have to come back here again, eh, Reg?" said Sally, to lighten the atmosphere. The site was an urban wasteland, looking more blasted and forlorn and derelict than it should because a city was growing around it, but leaving this site scrupulously untouched, as if it were the property developer's equivalent of Nobby Nobbs. Patches of scrubby grass and weeds added to the desolation.

Reg looked miserable.

"Once was enough, miss!" he declared.

Cheery tested the metal samples with acids from her kit bag. She watched the degree and viciousness of fizz.

"Some steel and some aluminium" she reported. "The wheel is made of some unidentifiable substance. Not rubber. The Roundworld people at the University might have picked up a clue from the parallel world's alchemy, though."

"I've often wondered about that" said Sally. "Do the people on this… parallel Discworld… know we're watching them?"

"According to Professor Stibbons, they keep it a very guarded secret." Cheery said, bagging and tagging her samples. "The only leak they knew about, they wiped the poor soul's memory before sending him back**(6)**. Professor Stibbons thinks other leakages have happened, but so far, the person at the Roundworld end just dismisses it as a crazy dream when they wake up."

Fred Colon panted his way to them.

"Miss! Miss Angua! I've found a hole!" seeing this was not going to be enough, Colon added "A hole in the ground. I nearly missed it 'cos of the bushes.. It might be a doorway into the thing. It's got steps and everything!"

"Oh, _shit_!" said Reg Shoe, miserably. Angua nodded.

"Let's go and look, shall we? Fred, keep guard. If we're not back inside an hour, call for back-up."

"Yes, miss!" Colon agreed, happy he wasn't being asked to go inside the thing. There could be _anything_ down there!

* * *

Lord Vetinari read the Watch digest, and steepled his fingers.

He frowned. This was _not_ good news. These things had threatened the city once and nearly overwhelmed the Wizards, his first line of defence against such incursions. Only the public-spirited actions of the City Undead had saved the day, an action which had prompted him to re-assess their status as citizens with full rights. Indeed, it had given him the idea to appoint a werewolf to the Watch in token of the new status of the Undead. This could pose a problem.

He rang a bell.

"Ah, Drumknott. Seek to prise the Arch-chancellor away from the dinner table, would you, as a matter of urgency? Ask him to being Professor Stibbons and such recollections of a wizard called Windle Poons as may be available. Thank you!"

And then there was Roundworld… Vetinari was not sure what to do with the Project. He'd read examples of a Roundworld literary genre called science-fiction, where a recurring sub-theme involved the inhabitants of Planet Earth, with its teeming billions, realising they'd irreparably wrecked their home planet. Given a choice between evacuating their planet in vast, expensive, colony ships and looking for new suitable homes in space (difficult), or breaking through the dimensions into a relatively unspoilt nearby parallel world populated by a mere handful of millions and taking that over (easier), he had no doubt which they would plump for. The fact some Roundworlders thought like that, and had even written the blueprint for such an invasion into superficially fictional novels, rather worried him.

He decided to deal with the immediate problem first.

"Drumknott? When Commander Vimes' squad returns from exploring the suspected Code Twenty-Three situation at the ah, Hive, have Vimes bring them directly to me. Thank you!"

* * *

**(1) **The film _**Full Metal Jacket**_ (1987) hadn't been released at this time, but the fate of the Gunnery Sergeant at the hands of Private Pyle would be something that would worry any officer or senior NCO to shudder in years to come. (The worry would be "is the ammo safely locked away? Don't say we could get as sloppy as the Seps about accounting for it all and making sure no dissafected Tom takes any souvenirs away from the ranges...")

**(2) **Holtack and the sergeant are describing the SA-80 series of personal weapons, introduced in the late 1980's, which suffered from all those faults to the extent that several battalions slated for service in the Gulf flatly refused to carry them – they were allowed their old trusted SLR's instead.

**(3) **This happened on an Army range in Yorkshire. A stray round, by appalling bad luck, ended up killing a woman who was walking her dogs a mile away from the range. This freak accident happens more often than you'd think.

**(4) **For the definition of a policing Code Twenty-Three situation, see my story** "Small Medium, Large Headache", **in which Mrs Cake persuades the Watch to assist in her inquiries. It's to do with tentacles, OK?

**(5) **I'm tribute-plagiarising Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson's masterwork _**Illuminatus!**_ here, as this also deals with leakage between parallel universes…

**(6) **See _**The Science of Discworld III – Darwin's Watch**_ for details.


	7. Currency Exchange

_**Slipping Between Worlds 7 - just a short taster to keep the flow going**_

_**Dave's Pin, Stamp and Graphic Novel Interchange, Ankh-Morpork.**_

A tall, slightly hunched, figure, cloaked and hooded despite the daylight, moved purposefully through the streets of the city. Something about the mysterious figure radiated an aura of sinister dark menace, partly the sort of aura that makes even the most desperate unlicenced Thief think again about attempting to relieve the radiator of any cash or valuables that might be impeding him.

The rest of the aura of menace conveyed the attitude problems of a born creature of the night and darkness, who is reluctantly venturing abroad in daylight, hates it, feels about as much at home as a vampire on a day shift in a garlic bread bakery, and who might actively relish an opportunity to communicate to anyone making trouble for him exactly how ill-adjusted he is to his surroundings.

Igor, bar-thing at Biers, was (despite his name) not a true Igor. That is to say, while he might have Igor blood , it did not run pure or true, and one of its effects was that while he knew an extraordinary number of inventively different and painful ways to _dismantle _a living body, he wasn't at all up to speed concerning how to put it back together again afterwards. In fact, he was more of a _Rogi_: the necessary and inevitable opposite condition to that of the true Igors, a clan now dedicated to advancing the common good of sentient races and animals through medicine and pioneering surgery. Thousands of years ago, in fact, Rogis had worked for the Dark Empire on such proto-bioengineering tasks as creating carbon-based trolls and the pseudo-goblin soldiery, the Orcs, for the said Empire. Fortunately, few still lived and most had forgotten any Igoring skills of any kind that they may once have had.

This Igor was happy to run Biers, serve drinks and snacks to the City's Undead community, and cash the takings afterwards. It would have been meaningless, as well as painful, to call him _evil. _He was the way he was made, and one of the ways in which he amassed points on the other side of the ledger was by looking after the slightly confused old ladies who, despite lack of any Undead traits, still drank in Biers under the mistaken impression it was still the Crown and Axe. Indirectly this was the reason why he was on his mission. Igor knew the strange foreign coins he'd been given last night by the even odder Mrs Nora Tachyon were rare and possibly had value.

He was on his way to Dolly Sisters, a slightly more gentrified and up-market part of Morpork**(1)**, to get them valued. And he knew just the man.

Other city institutions had trade outlets in Dolly Sisters. Dane Stamper's shop was sandwiched in between two Seamstresses Guild affiliates, a house of repute on one side, and a, er, _massage parlour__(__**2**__)_, on the other. As Igor approached, a tall well-build blonde Hublandish woman was storming out of the massage parlour, face red with rage and humiliation, slamming the door behind her. A kind but worried voice followed her.

"_Try Dr Lawn, love, at the Lady Sybil hospital, on Attic Bee Street. He's recruiting for your sort of massage therapist!"_

Igor entered, shrugging. The huge figure of Dave Stamper was kindly shaking his head to a teenage stamp-collector.

"Still forty pence, I think. Well, you'll just have to come back next week with two weeks of pocket money if you want _those _stamps! Now let me talk to a _paying_ customer. Sir?"

Igor paused at the counter and let just enough of his face be seen. To his credit, Dave stared back, unfazed. He'd seen worse in this city, and Undead or not, this was _his _bloody shop.

"I have coins. Rare coins. I was told you buy?"

"The right coins at the right price, yes."

Igor shook them out onto the counter. Dave was professional enough not to let more than the first hint of a whistle out. But Igor noticed, all the same. These coins were _special._

Dave took his time examining them. He even brought out a special list. A very special list that he would not let Igor look at. The inside of his head was computing money. Big money. But he'd placed the customer now. He was almost sure this was the barman from Biers, where strange customers from strange places drank strange drinks. Which may explain where the coins came from. And that there would almost certainly be more when the customer who paid with such cash returned.

So all the more important to play reasonably fair and give Igor an incentive to come back with more. Which meant paying fairly. Dave wasn't going to strangle this particular golden goose by underpaying.

"I'll be level with you. I have a very special customer for those coins, I'm not at liberty to say who, which is why I can't show you the list he gav e me to recognise them by . But."

Dave calculated the likely amount the Very Special Customer would pay. Then he halved it. Then he halved it again. Then he relented and added a little.

"I'll give you twenty dollars for the lot."

"Thirty!" said Igor, automatically, although he'd have settled for twenty gladly.

"Twenty-three!" said Dave.

"Twenty-eight!" countered Igor.

"Twenty five. Last offer." Said Dave.

"Done!" said Igor. They shook hands. Dave had never before felt a hand with so much hair on it, especially on the palm.

"Any more like that you get. My client will be glad of them!" Dave said, as he paid up.

"Oh, there _will _be more!" said Igor, knowing Mrs Tachyon had paid in advance for an awful lot of drinks for herself and Mrs Gammage. He'd make sure, in return, that Mrs T got enough small coin to pay her way in Ankh-Morpork, it was the least he could do for her. He left, humming a dirge-like tune.

Waiting till he had gone, Dave beckoned over the kid who didn't nearly have enough cash to buy that pack of gaudy Rimwards Howondaland stamps he coveted. He could afford an act of generosity.

"Do you still want those stamps? Yours for tenpence. But you do something for me first. Run a message for me to the Patrician's Palace. Get a reply, bring it straight back, that's worth thirty pence to me. Then the stamps are yours!"

Dave wrote a fast note on headed paper and sealed it in an envelope. He didn't have to wait long for a reply.

"Thanks, Dave!" said the stamp collector. Dave nodded. He read the reply.

_Deliver the items directly to me. En sure this is done with maximum discretion. Payment will be $AM100 as agreed. _

_V._

Dave exhaled. Staying on the right side of Vetinari – and being paid handsomely for it for coins that were legal tender nowhere in this universe and consisted only of copper, bronze and nickel _(These British, who and wherever they are, must be cheapskates) _was a bonus. Vetinari must _really_ want these coins, he thought. Dave wondered if there were the special collectors out there who might outbid Vetinari. Then he slapped himself for being stupid. If there were, Vetinari would know. And he will not be plaeased with me. And a profit of seventy-five dollars on a fistful of small coin... do _not_ get greedy, Dave, or it won't just be the golden goose that gets throttled.

* * *

**(1)** Compared to, say, the Shades.

**(2) **it's like the difference between _seamstressing _and _prostitution. _As Solfriege Lundqvist, a trained massage therapist in her native Hubsvenska, had just found out an trying to apply for a job there where she could use her skills, training and professional certification. Solfriege was new to Ankh-Morpork.


	8. Two cities

_**Slipping Between Worlds 8**_

_**The High Energy Magic Building, Unseen University, Ankh-Morpork.**_

The Dark Clerk from the Palace looked across the stack of books at Ponder Stibbons.

"The Patrician has authorised me on his behalf to give thanks for the loan, and that he is returning these items to you for disposal in accordance with the agreed protocols for use and retention of Roundworld artefacts". she said.

"When there is no longer a need for their retention for approved study, then the items are discreetly returned, or if this is not possible, destroyed." quoted Ponder. "They should only remain on Discworld for the minimum time and it is essential that a _need-to-know_ principle apples."

The Dark Clerk nodded.

"Just so, sir." She said, sombrely. She was in her late teens, and was a new member of the Secretariat. Ponder, who among his other University duties had been delegated Liaison Officer to the Guild of Assassins**(1)**, wondered what it was that gave a formerly carefree and laughing student Assassin the demeanour of an undertaker's assistant when she signed on at the Palace.

"I'll leave you to it, then, sir. Oh, there is a note from the Patrician in the bundle too. Sealed instructions for you. I'm not privy to the contents."

She shuffled her feet, self-consciously, and added

"When you see Miss Smith-Rhodes next, sir, please remember me to her. Sharon Higgins, formerly of B2 House."

Ponder remembered the Guild set-up. B2 was a House for day scholarship pupils, non-boarders who lived in the City. Somehow they'd never quite got round to giving it one of the rather sinister Names that the older boarding Houses had, and it had retained the pencilled designation it had had on the expansion blueprints ten years before.

"I will. She likes to know how her old pupils are getting on. Any message?"

"Yes, sir. Her classes in Applied Exothermic Alchemy proved _really_ useful the other week. She'll understand!"

Ponder smiled, uncertainly, and extracted the letter from Vetinari. Having a girlfriend who could, were she so minded, inhume in any one of a thousand different and inventive ways certainly added _sparkle_ to a relationship. And, where exothermic alchemy**(2)** was involved, some rather large _booms_ to go with the sparkle. After a generally quiet life spent in academic research (although punctuated with occasional memorable action) Ponder had taken the eventual view that a little action and interest was necessary in anyone's life. Johanna provided it, often and reliably.

Ponder grinned, and extracted the message from Vetinari. He read it quickly, and then grimaced.

_Professor Stibbons, _

_I return the Roundworld literature which HEX kindly selected for me with thanks. As you know, I elected to take a personal interest in the cultural and literary heritage of Roundworld, partly for personal interest, and mainly because I felt my time on the Project might be best served by seeking an understanding of its societal drives and motivations. _

_The attached novels are drawn from the science-fiction genre of the English-speaking world, and have all proven to be intrinsically of worth, as well as sharing a common theme which I find personally disquieting._

"_Science-fiction", so called, is a literature of the possible, where the social concerns and technological capacity of the present day is drawn forward in the imagination of the author to address hypothetical situations which are dimly perceived, but outside the capacity of the Present to realise. We have nothing remotely like it on the Disc, which is a detriment as a literature that holds up a mirror to society in this way is a key to perceiving issues which it finds at least theoretically of interest. _

_As one of our foremost scientific thinkers, I therefore invite you to read these works of soaring imagination yourself, and to identify a common theme I perceive runs through all of them. Then we may discuss the deeper implications and consider the potential for danger. _

_A man of your capacities and inclinations will find this interesting and engrossing. Keep this discreet, although I have no objections to your discussing this privately with the redoubtable Miss Smith-Rhodes. _

_With thanks_

_V_

Ponder frowned. Vetinari would not do something like this without at least one deeper reason. He resolved to ask HEX to produce synopses for all these books, and follow it through with speed-reading of the better-written ones. Perhaps Johanna could oblige by reading some. It was a slow week at the Guild and she wasn't too busy with her other duties at the Zoo.

"Miss Higgins, please pass my regards to His Lordship and assure him I will set about the assignment directly." he said.

Sharon nodded and dismissed herself to return to the Palace.

Ponder unpacked the books, and read the covers. His perplexity increased.

_The Darksword Trilogy, _by Margaret Hicks and Tracy Weiss.

_The Adept of Proton _series, by Piers Anthony.

Kim Stanley Robinson's _Mars _trilogy.

_The Neanderthal Parallax, _by Robert J. Sawyer.

He put aside the brick-thick Mars trilogy for later.

All were of typical Roundworld manufacture, in floppy garish paper covers. Although an adult male with - admittedly delayed - sexual experience, Ponder still flushed red at the cover of the first Adept novel, which featured a pretty and well-proportioned naked girl who was also… some sort of machine? A panel on her thigh was open revealing flashing lights and some sort of machinery underneath. _Have they worked out how to combine golems and people? Is she some sort of techno-Zombie? _

Underneath, Ponder was still a young male. Therefore, he chose to jusge the book by the naked lady on the cover, deciding this would be a good starting point.

"Oh, hello" he said, as the Librarian ambled in. "Look, I know these have just come in, but Vetinari says I've got to read them. They won't be ready for you for a while yet?"

The Librarian nodded.

"_Oook!" _he said, amiably. No great rush.

Copies of Roundworld books and artefacts produced by HEX – or examples of the real thing that were occasionally deliberately brought back by researchers, or which inadvertently made their way here – were meant to be returned or destroyed. HEX screened against bacterial or viral infection passing between worlds – he was devising better anti-viral protection every day.

But the Librarian reacted violently to any attempt to send Roundworld books and magazines to the University furnace. Under lock and key at the moment, the Library was amassing a possibly unique set of shelves consisting of Roundworld Literature. He'd come here sensing the latest acquisitions and to forestall any attempt at blasphemy and sacrilege – the burning of books.

Right now, he was thoughtfully leafing through Sawyer's _Neanderthal_ trilogy.

_**The Patrician's Palace:- **_

Vetinari himself was amassing information and concerns. The more-than-foreign coins that were popping up in the city sat on the desk in front of him. Much as he abhorred un-necessary expenditure, he knew it was important to ensure all these strays were rounded in. Paying Dave over the odds for them appeared to be the only way – in these circumstances the market was most effective. He had people out looking for the sources. This small insignificant leakage, he knew, was a sign of deeper and unauthorised leakage that needed to be identified and stopped.

He steepled his fingers, thoughtfully.

There was no doubt that, properly managed, the Roundworld Project was an inestimable boon to the City. The Artificers' Guild reckoned that it would not be too long before basic gas lighting could be brought to the city. Technologically, reducing coal into coal gas was well within the reach of current abilities, and it could then be piped into the city and directed to _eternal sconces _to light its main thoroughfares at night. The technology already existed: it just required reconstructing in a different way. It would of course require vastly more coal imports from Überwald and Lancre, but both were friendly states these days, sitting on vast coal reserves. Electric lighting was something to aspire to, as even the most optimistic Artificer frankly reckoned the technology wasn't there yet, and the manufacturing base skilled in _that_ sort of precision work to service _that_ large an infrastructure was a long way in the future.

_Let things come in their due season without forcing them, _Vetinari had directed, accepting this. _But something more powerful than candle-light to read by at night…_

And what that Watt person had done with even something as hitherto disregarded as steam power…. Vetinari's fertile mind returned to the Undertaking. Stibbons had shown him the Underground in London, a vastly teeming city with a maddeningly familiar wiggly river running through the middle of it. Such an elegant route-map for such a complex network serving… _ten million? In one city? _

Anyone brought up in Ankh knew the familiar wiggly shape of the river by heart. They also knew that cab-drivers generally refused to go Rimwards of the river after midnight.**(3)** Vetinari wondered if he was the only one to have perceived familiarity in the wiggly random squiggle delineated by the River Thames.**(4)**

Such coincidences disquieted him. He also suspected the line of the Inseine, the river that ran through Quirm City, had a lot in common with that of Paris**(5)**. He wondered what else might happen if people looked closely at Roundworld geography, and nodded with satisfaction that this had been left in the hands of Professor Rincewind, whose reports largely concerned being arrested, detained, thrown into cells, escaping, running and being arrested again. He hadn't had time or inclination to study the geography much, apart from stray remarks such as "Sweden in winter is bloody cold!" and "This country is all sand and these people on camels, pointing their cultural wavy-bladed knives and scimitars at me, look suspiciously Klatchian. Are you sure I'm not still on the Disc?"

No, Rincewind, although Professor of Egregious and Un-natural Geography, was always more concerned with the _political _map and staple manufactured produce of any country, insofar as this included the type and lethality of weapons being pointed at him. The geology and physical landscape were not his field, except for it offering useful hiding places.

But there was the report that one of those _things_ had been seen in the city again after so long. And he had personally been there to debrief Vimes' exploration party after they returned from last night. And what they'd returned _with _was now in maximum security confinement.

Vetinari sighed. He suspected there was going to be an even bigger breakthrough from Roundworld, and it would come sooner rather than later. He hoped he'd primed and instructed the correct people.

* * *

_**Some hours earlier at the Hive:-**_

Angua, Sally, Reg and Cheery had taken their first steps down into the Hive, leaving Fred Colon on guard at ground level. Cheery had pulled her backpack on which contained the SOCO**(6) **kit, leaving both hands free to grasp her axe: she watched their rear as the other three moved forwards. Only Reg was human, albeit a zombie, and none of the other three needed that much light to see by. Even Reg, by an effort of will, could force his eyes to become optimal for the dim light and make the most of what was there.

There was evidence other humans had been here. The lurid graffiti of "ANHK UNITED RUEL OK!" , which had been part-overpainted by "Dollies forever!" and "Ankh U = Blue Cats", said it all. On the other wall, some unfortunate called Ernie Rollings was accused, forever, of renting out a certain part of his anatomy in exchange for money. _Clacks Mrs Palm (Morpork 69) and ask to rent Ernie for a night! _

Sally giggled. The Seamstresses' Guild had paid over the odds to secure "Ankh-Morpork 69" as their clacks number. From their point of view it was advertising.

But the graffiti petered out after about thirty yards as the light faded further still. A miserable-looking Reg led them down the still metal steps – which to Angua's mind looked as if they had somehow been designed to flow and take people with them – and deeper into the bowels of the building.

Here, the smooth, organic-feeling walls, were covered in a layer of greasy oily soot as if some cataclysm had happened. They turned to Reg.

"It did." he said."The wizards got trigger-happy. They threw in a cocktail of destruction spells. For even this much to be left, most of those spells must have cancelled each other out, or something."

He paused, and added

"It had a wonderful defensive mechanism, miss. You didn't dare try to kill it".

There was a silence.

"Still with us, Reg?" asked Angua.

He added, sincerely frightened,

"Oh, I feel dead."

Sally felt impelled to comment.

"Anyone tell you you look dead? Come on, Reg, it can't be as bad as last time! The thing is dead, remember! What can a dead thing possibly do to us?"

"Unlike you, Reg, I think it's safe to assume this isn't a zombie." Cheery called, happily. She was a Dwarf. She was underground. She was holding an axe. What wasn't there to like?

"It _seems_ dead enough." agreed Angua. But some of her werewolf instincts were twitching. What if some tiny little part of this creature – she'd been briefed that it _was_ a creature – was still living, waiting for the right circumstances to grow again? A beehive could seem dead over winter, but if you looked long enough, you'd find perhaps a hibernating Queen waiting for Spring and time to start laying eggs again… that brought back another recent memory. What had Fred said about _city eggs_?

She'd once seen a werewolf, a fairly recent puppy, investigate a dead-seeming wasps' nest. Werewolves cannot be killed by wasp stings, but they can still experience pain. The image was still there in her memory.

"Cheery? Don't dawdle!"

Cheery was investigating a stretch of tunnel where the roof had partly fallen in. She shook herself and said

"Angua, this is amazing! This tunnel's perfectly smooth, but every so often it folds into a ridge we have to step over, they go all the way round. Those ridges are like self-creating pit-props! They should be able to take a lot of real pressure from the rock and soil and still hold a tunnel open! And look here where one of those roof-scales has fallen in. See how the earth behind has been crushed and compacted? This thing must have started from a hollow tube, like a tree root, and as it grew it crushed the earth and rock around it. I know Dwarfs who'd be really interested in…"

"Cheery, stop thinking like a sodding Dwarf and _concentrate_!"

And then the tunnel opened out into a cavern.

"Wow!"

"Wow!"

"Oh, _shit_!"

The explorers took in the wreckage, which had once delineated an arcade with shaped and regular large… rooms? Compartments? on all sides. From somewhere above, seemingly lifeless tubes hung and trailed from a gash in the ceiling.

"That was the Queen" Reg said, miserably. "I wouldn't go near it if I were you…"

But Sally was investigating, weighing the metallic-but-organic tubing in her hands.

"And a _vampire_ brought this about?" she said, incredulously. "Fat old Arthur Winklings? That silly Doreen's husband?"

"We had to throw him pretty hard, yes. But he pulled it all out of its socket."

Angua was suddenly running to the far side of the arcade, calling for somebody to follow and cover her. Sally dropped the dead tubes and pursued.

"I can hear something, Sally." Angua raised a hand for silence. "Will you listen to me, Sally? Shut up!"

Sally strained her vampire senses. "Let's hear it. Let's hear it."

"I think it's using those overhead pipes. The big squared-off ones. Air shafts?"

Sally frowned. She could hear nothing. But now Angua was aware, she felt she could sense a very far and faint sign of life. Werewolves are optimized to hear and smell. Vampires have an awareness field that allows them to pinpoint any nearby life down to the last rat. And that wasn't rat-life in the piping. In fact, you'd have expected more rats down here than there were…

Sally whispered " You don't know that .What sort of life is it?"

The phrase "_It's life, Angua, but not as we know it_." came perilously close to being said. Sally bit it back, feeling for some unaccountable reason as if she'd lose vampire-cool if she did.

Angua, who was considering turning Wolf, had a brief and unwelcome vision of herself stripped down to her vest and knickers, being watched by an unseen audience. This was an occupational hazard of The Change, but it felt ten times more unpalatable here. She said, doubtfully, as if the words were arriving from a long distance away,

"That's the only way. We'll move in pairs. We'll go step by step and cut off every bulkhead and every vent until we have it cornered. And then we'll blow it the _Seamstresses-Guild-Commercial Transaction _out into space. Is that acceptable to you?"

Sally blinked.

"Well, no. For one thing we've only got two Pairs and there's quite a lot of Hive. We need backup."

Angua shook her head.

"Sorry. Don't know what came over me just then. It's as if there was a script handy."

"I know. I felt it too!"

They moved on in silence. Then both could hear it. A single noise. A _plib_ sound.

"Angua!" Sally said, urgently. There was a single pipe, it alone a healthy pink. Underneath it, still warm to the touch, were little glass half-globes. Inside were recognisable models of Ankh-Morpork civic landmarks. They were filled with liquid and little shreds of glittery foil and white paper. Shake one, and it looked like a snowstorm descending over the Brass Bridge or the Opera House or the Palace. It was strangely addictive and made you want to own one, even though you'd worked out how the trick was done.

"City eggs. " said Reg. "So it's back."

"We'll each take a couple of those." Angua said. "Find somewhere safe to lock them up. Then after we've reported in, we come back and finish the job here. OK, let's go and pick up Fred. There aren't enough of us here and we don't have the weapons to make a difference in here."

The party turned to retrace its steps to the outside world. It found its way out without incident. But Angua had the uneasy feeling something was watching them and letting them go.

"I'm glad you're back, miss!" Fred Colon said , standing up. "All done?"

"Almost" Angua said, retrieving one of the city eggs from her pouch. She noted Fred's fearful and instant response, which was as good as a thousand words.

"But we'll have to come _back_, though!"

* * *

_**The Shirt Factory, Londonderry.**_

Philip Holtack awoke from more confused semi-waking dreams. He had argued with the unseen voice in the submarine that he was not George Dorn. A beautiful woman called Mavis had materialised to tell him, with infinite sadness, that he must now go round the long hard way before he was Illuminated._ You've picked the hard road, George! _ He had glimpsed Alice Band in archaic period clothing again, this time accompanied by a red-haired girl dressed mannishly in khaki uniform, something like that worn during the Boer War, eighty-odd years beforehand. He thought the two clothing styles were recognisably of the same era, although half a world apart. He had heard his sister Denise, the fashion designer, make impatient noises about "no, no! The details are wrong! That sort of bustle went out in 1880 and the cut of the tunic is wrong. But that sort of pencil skirt belongs in 1910 and the boots are from 1900!" Holtack's sister was carving a career out for herself in London in fashion and design. Time spent with her - he had a knack for soaking up interesting but useless information - meant he could look at a photograph of a woman and identify it to ther right decade, mayebe even the very year, by the cut of her clothes and the way her hair was styled and makeup applied. It was a gift, although he wasn't sure what he could _do _with it.

He had awoken from a scene of hooded men in a darkly ornate temple, gathered at the eight points of a ceremonial octogram, intoning solemnly

_Do not throw your cigarette butts into the urinal as they are subtle and quick to anger!"_

He shrugged, and went to the O-group, the briefing session known alternately as Evening Prayers.**(7).** The Colonel, smoking his pipe genially, before setting off to meet his wife at the local hotel where she was staying the weekend, discussed the coming evening's patrols in detail, assigning them to various duty officers who would then go off and brief their NCO's.

"Philip. We've received Intelligence that there might be an attempt to place a car-bomb on Upper Rosville so as to block the road for those bloody nuisances when they march tomorrow. You will patrol Lecky and Rosville with Seven Platoon so as to be an active and a visible deterrent."

Holtack nodded, gloomily. This was where he had died in his dream. Even though he did not rationally think a dream could predict his own death – how could it and why should it? – it still wasn't all that exciting a prospect to be told to patrol the same street. _Pull yourself together, idiot. _he told himself. _You still have to do the job that's in front of you. _

The Colonel had moved on.

"As we all know, the presence of so many Protestant marchers for their bloody dratted nuisance tomorrow is causing tensions. Dam' provocative, if you ask me, routing their bloody parade through the Catholic areas. We advocated banning it, but the bloody RUC and their politicians over-ruled us, so we just have to do what we can, I'm afraid, chaps. Anyway, tonight is Friday and there'll be an awful lot of drinking going on, so orders are to be as discreet as we can, let the RUC deal with any minor offences and drunken-ness. Of course, should any drunk takes a swipe at you or any of your Toms, local discretion applies. Just don't provoke a dam' riot, that's all."

The colonel toked, in the secure serenity of one who is about to take a much-needed local leave with his wife, leaving routine business to others. He had said the 2-i-c, Major Wynne Parry-Jones, would be in command until he returned.

He smiled.

"Alice, you're working tonight too. Take ten of your girls and reinforce the Greenfinches in the cages. Assist in searching and passing through women civilians into the Diamond."

Alice nodded: a point in her favour was that she liked getting as near to active service as she possibly could, although she could have sat out the full tour in safety without leaving barracks once.

Stroke City being what it was – a city totally divided on ethnic and religious grounds by a river – neither side cared to cross to the opposite bank very much. However, the city centre, by unspoken mutual pact, was a "safe" area for both types of Irish to do their shopping, visit pubs, and go nightclubbing. Entrance by all roads was strictly controlled by "cages", barbed-wire and sandbagged turnstiles through which everyone who entered or left was frisked and searched, with no exception. This had to be done quickly and efficiently. For modesty and practical reasons, women were patted down by other women, and the RUC didn't nearly have enough WPC's (the famous "Greenfinches") to do the job. So British servicewomen assisted here , just as there was always a duty platoon on call to assist the RUC at peak times.

This could be a pleasant low-key duty on a good day. You got to know people, many of whom made a joke about it and were keen to get it over with as quickly as possible. One regular even carried a bag of sweeties in, that she handed round to the Toms on duty. Having assured themselves she was a Protestant with no form and was genuinely being supportive, the Toms appreciated her. Little things could count for a lot. And as only one person could be searched at a time, sometimes people from the Bogside and the Creggan whispered things in passing, knowing they were safe to inform, intimidated by the IRA at all other times. Similarly, Prots who were otherwise intimidated into silence by their terrorists might offer snippets that were pure gold. It all helped build the _humint (_**8) **picture.

Others were passive, offering neither resistance nor encouragement, just letting it happen as an unpleasant reality.

A third category did not actively resist – that was grounds for arrest – but chose to express its Republican or Loyalist sympathies by abuse and foul-mouthed heckling. This had to be finely gradated for the individual to pass without retaliation of some sort – orders were not to rise to it and leave them with bruising they could show to journalists as proof of Army brutality - but most squaddies on this duty became adept at making sly digs back.

One woman, known as a Sinn Fein activist, had one day kept up a steady stream of vitriol directed against a new soldier under Alice Band's command, digging and prodding with insinuations about the girl being a dorty stinking lesbian, until the new soldier had started weeping. Alice had then taken over the search, cheerfully saying "So you don't like a hand up your skirt, then? I'm so sorry to hear that! " and smiling cheerfully at the hag.

The next step had been a well-judged Army boot up into the groin, just hard enough to double the hag over with tears welling to her eyes. Alice then picked her up by the lapels and glared into her eyes, saying

"This isn't brutality, by the way. This is British Army Being Slightly Annoyed. We can _try_ for brutality, if you like. No? Then you can bloody well stand still, shut up, and let my soldier search you. And you, private? Harden up! You will see and hear _a lot_ of this!"

And there was the time in the cages where Alice's cynical ruthlessness had paid off. A family group, mother, father and two children, had been passing through the cages out of the Bogside. Fusilier Hughes had searched the father, Alice the mother, and one of Alice's girls had looked over the children. Holtack had just been about to pass them through, when the child dropped her dolly. Fusilier Hughes picked it up and made to hand it back. Then he looked puzzled and tested the weight of the doll. Then shook it.

"Give it to me, Hughes" Alice had said, as he made to hand it back to the child. Then, to Holtack's astonishment and Hughes' dropping jaw, after weighing it up and shaking it herself, she ripped the doll's head off. There was bedlam: the children screaming, the mother demanding to know what sort of a woman she was that she'd destroy a baby's toy, the father demanding it be handed back right now and for another thing, he'd sue you Brits for the cost. Holtack went in to back her up, just as Alice withdrew a glistening brass bundle, secured by a broad elastic band, from inside the doll's body cavity.

"And what sort of a woman are _you_" Alice said, "that you allow your baby daughter to play with live rounds?"

She had then read the yellow card declaration, the one that talks about "you are temporarily in military custody until such time arises as you may be handed over to the civilian authorities", and then the RUC were in there, hauling them off, still screaming and crying while a Greenfinch tried to calm the children. Holtack, feeling astonished and a little bit disgusted, asked

"What happens to the kids now the parents have been lifted?"

She shrugged, as if such things didn't concern her.

"The council sends out a social worker of the appropriate religion. Then they go into care. Look, they're typical Bogside rats, father on the dole, living on benefits, and so on. They were probably promised fifty quid cash in hand for smuggling those rounds to a pick-up site somewhere. Right now there's probably a PIRA unit cruising around in a car somewhere with rifles and no bullets to fire out of them, so we got a result there! Nice work, Hughes!"

"Thank you, ma'am."

"And _do_ try not to look at me like that, Philip, I'm not a complete bitch!"

"You're _not_?"

"I'm working on it, so less lip! Look, those kids are going to be far better looked after in care. It'll be a holiday for them. Did you notice the parents absolutely _stank _of poverty? no toothpaste, cheap soap not applied often enough, and clothes that can stand another day's wear before they're washed. I can see why they couldn't refuse a bit of extra cash to smuggle bullets."

Holtack nodded, knowing in all probability he'd have let them pass…

And now he was on his way to brief Seven Platoon about tonight's little delight.

* * *

_**Cable Street, Ankh-Morpork.**_

Mrs Tachyon was enjoying herself, making friends with Dwarfs and tucking in to a roast rat and chip dinner at Gimlet's, paid for by the local money that nice young man Igor had given her in the pub. Her trolley was outside, guarded by Guilty. One of the Dwarf-women had taken pity on her and given her a couple of old blankets and an old cape to keep her warm at nights. These were currently draped and loosely folded over the top of her trolley, disguising its shape. Two of the local policemen had walked by and had not given it a second glance. One of them was the very tall well-built red-haired Officer who Mrs Tachyon instinctively knew to be intelligent, therefore possibly a problem.

But here and now, she was loving her first taste of rat, wondering why nobody ate it at Home. She'd go to Blackbury again next, she decided. Maybe into the 1990's, to look in on that nice young Johnny Maxwell and see what he and his friends were up to.

_

* * *

_

**(1)** Mustrum Ridcully had jovially noted that since Ponder was informally liaisin' with an Assassin on an intimate one-to-one basis, it may as well be made official, as you'd be relieved to know Donald Downey thinks highly of you too, lad.

**(2) **_Exothermic Alchemy_ – the dispassionate alchemical study of why certain instable compounds and elements oxidise, reduce or degrade whilst liberating large quantities of light and energy. . _Applied Exothermic Alchemy:_ the science of applying this knowledge to blowing up personally selected clients, often with extreme prejudice.

**(3) **Because the docks and the Shades are Rimwards (east) of the river, that's why, guv.

**(4) **Take your copy of _**The Streets of Ankh-Morpork**_ and rotate it by 90º. Then think of the opening credits of EastEnders, as the camera pans back from an aerial view of London, somewhere over the Isle of Dogs. Familiar, innit, guv?

**(5) **This is the one that, viewed north-to-south, looks suggestively like a large tonker and supporting infrastructure seen in left profile. There has to be something about the French if their signature river shouts to the world: _Attention! J'ai un tounquêre massif!…._

**(6) **British police acronym – Scene Of Crime Officer, ie a front-line officer taking in the scene and performing basic forensic analysis among other things.

**(7) **So called as the prayer was usually a variation of "Oh Lord, whoever gets killed or has men under his command killed or wounded tonight, or makes a serious error resulting in loss of civilian life in this of all cities, may it not be _**me**_. Amen!"

**(*8) Humint – **Human Intelligence, all the snippets, anecdotes, informal observations, deniable conversations, et c, that patrols brought back and passed on to Intelligence. As opposed to Elint, electronic intelligence, built up by tapping phones, comparing computer records, et c.

* * *

Recognisable quotes and some key scenes are from the film "_**Alien**_". Couldn't resist it.

Again I have also quoted a little bit of Shea and Wilson's "_**Illuminatus**_" cycle of books. Whilst this is only tangentially to do with this story, it does revolve around parellel and alternate worlds interacting with each other where science meets magic.

All four science-fiction series trilogies given to Ponder to read, and their authors, exist here on Roundworld, and all are good reads of varying degrees of "goodness" (Although the Mars trilogy is too long and a bit leaden in places.)


	9. Just Castling

_**Slipping Between Worlds 9**_

_**The City Zoological Gardens, Ankh-Morpork. **_

Assassins' Guild teacher and Zoo director Johanna Smith-Rhodes was on a regular early-morning tour of the premises. The Zoo had come about a couple of years previously owing to one of Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler's epic business miscalculations. Dibbler had imported a choice selection of wildlife from Rimwards Howondaland, sinking all his available cash into the dimly-realised dream of a Safari Park, where the city's populace might flock to see the animals in a habitat roughly similar to the one they enjoyed back home.

Unfortunately, it had got no further than a fund-raising day in Hide Park, where a local youth gang affiliated to the Shamlegger Street Rude Boys had picked the locks on the cages for a laugh, allowing the wildlife and the people to get too close to each other for everyone's comfort.

As the Guild's principal teacher in nature studies and zoology, and the City's acknowledged expert on the wildlife of her native Howondaland, Johanna had been tasked with rounding up and securing the escaped animals. Afterwards, she had made the City Council an offer it found very difficult to refuse, and the recaptured animals became the nucleus of the city Zoo.**(1)**

The Zoo had been built on land owned by Dibbler, financed jointly by the Assassins' Guild (who retained a controlling interest) with the balance of the investment coming from the University, the Thieves' Guild, and private citizens such as Lady Sybil Ramkin. The animal houses had grown from the original basic wire and post enclosures, and many new acquisitions had made their way here, often by exchange with private menageries elsewhere on the Disc. Two pandas had arrived from Agatea, for instance, in exchange for a surplus pair of Hublandish albino bears. Fourecks had sent kangaroos, wombats, and duck-billed platypi, while Ankh-Morpork had sent some of its surplus leopards, lions and tigers to the new Bugarup Municipal Zoo. Ankh-Morpork had been the first to establish a public-access Zoo, as opposed to a private menagerie. Indeed, one of Johanna's unique sales points to the Patrician and Secretary Drumknott had been that the Palace menagerie be finally closed and its animals moved to the Zoo.

This had opened up valuable building land on the Palace site which would soon house branches of the expanded Civil Service in the Menagerie Wing.

Meanwhile, the Zoo had inherited an odd assortment of creatures, such as a population of giant tortoises originally from the Brown Islands. A previous Patrician had experimented with using them in place of the traditional four wild horses, for ripping a criminal apart limb from limb. **(2) **That had been two hundred years ago. Tortoises are extremely long-lived. Retired to the Menagerie, the tortoises had set about growing and reproducing, and Johanna had inherited twenty-four of them of various sizes and ages. The Palace collection had also bequeathed her several elephants, a small herd of arthritic okapi, and a family of gibbons, among other things. The University Librarian was a keen Zoo visitor with a strong advocacy interest in his fellow Great Apes, and Johanna thought she had solved a long-standing mystery when he hopped over the fence into the gibbon enclosure. From the way they greeted each other with paw-shakes and easy familiarity, she thought this explained why the Librarian had been known to spend the odd night in the Palace Menagerie, despite their being no other orang-utans there. _Orangs and gibbons both come from the same place. That makes sense. _

In deference to the Librarian, Johanna had very carefully refrained from adding captive orangs to the Zoo stock. She considered this both prudent and respectful.

She had also made sure the staff, golem, human, troll and dwarf, were all aware the Librarian was a guest here and expressly _not _an escapee to be recaptured. With some people you couldn't presume, you had to spell it out. And she was keen to avoid damage to her staff at the paws of , let's say, an enraged orang-utan of good reputation who'd paid his fifty pence to get in, like any other citizen visiting the Zoo.

She moved on. Her student Assassins, in strict class rota, supplemented the paid staff and kept the wage bill down.**(3)** The Zoo was a useful teaching resource, not only for what it could teach about biology, natural history and zoology. For student Assassins, it taught watchfulness, caution, and the need to develop fast reflexes. Mucking out the lions' cages needed to be planned in detail, like a good inhumation. For one thing, it's vitally important the lion be somewhere else while two or three humans are shovelling, sweeping and hosing down. Even one of the smaller, but fiercely territorial, creatures, like the meerkats, could provide a painful lesson in _overconfidence_ to an unwary student.

And it wasn't just the Assassins.

The Thieves' Guild sponsored the chimpanzees' house, and its students provided volunteers to work with the chimps and look after their needs. This had worked just fine, after an initial misunderstanding where one student Thief had attempted to take a baby chimp home with her.

The Guild of Artisans sponsored some of the tool-using species, most notably the Clock-Building Cuckoo of Überwald and the Archer Fish of Paraquat**(4)**.

The College of Heralds had finally found a home here for itself and its animals. The heraldic _quasi-zoology_ they had brought with them was of intrinsic interest in its own right and added value to the Zoo, the Heralds had uncluttered space in which to work, and in return for selling the Assassins' Guild their original but burnt-out site on Mollymog Street, were here in perpetuity.

The former College of Heralds had since been redeveloped as the Assassins Guild School (Heralds-Mollymog Campus) which provided additional classroom and laboratory space, as well as student accommodation for two of the houses that had hitherto been on the overcrowded Filigree Street site. It had been a shrewd move, as the new campus also allowed for a dedicated donjon where Miss Pretty Butterfly could teach Agatean martial arts, now a popular speciality.

And then there were the other occupants of the Zoo site…

_Unseen University. Department of Cryptozoology, Quasi-zoology and Paranormal Life Science. _

Johanna let herself in through the public entrance. The wizards were always keen to show off their own animal collection. And she couldn't fault them: these were mainly the slim, even emaciated, young students and research wizards of the Ponder Stibbons ilk, who stayed fit, and didn't mind rolling their sleeves up and hitching up their robes to help the wider Zoo community. Johanna quite liked wizards, one in particular, and suspected that young men who had to be reminded to eat, because they were engrossed in something ten times more interesting than mere _mealtimes,_ were the future of the profession.

"Good morning, professor" she said, politely. "How is the new Embiguous Puzuma settling in?"

"Let me show you" said Professor Berwin, the head of department. "It was actually quite a coup catching this one!"

He led Johanna to a flat glass screen on the wall, or what looked like one. It was showing a flat green plain, with a meandering river leading to distant mountains. It was actually quite a restful, beautiful, vista, and Johanna suspected it didn't quite share the same set of dimensions as the rest of the Discworld.

"This is actually a doorway to Maligree's Wonderful Garden" he explained. "We've modified the spell so that the Garden is finite in dimension, and otherwise suits the Puzuma's natural environment, which obviously has to be long, wide and flat, with few obstructions. What you are looking at is in fact the inside of a sphere, fourteen hundred miles wide. The walls of the sphere are protected by a time-dampening field, so that the animal slows gradually and is brought to a stop without impacting anything. The Puzuma, of course, runs at the speed of Discworld light, so we have arranged for the bulk of the enclosure to be in a parallel limbo dimension. The front screen here is the only part of it that exists in this dimension, with a consequent beneficial effect on space at the Zoo. Ah, here she comes now…."

They watched as a distant blue and red twinkle approached, getting larger and faster, pushing blue light before it and trailing red light after. Suddenly it was at the glass, stopped and looking puzzled. The creature took the form of a large leopard-like cat, with a chessboard coat of black and white squares. Eventually it set to grooming itself, the default position for a puzzled cat.

"We can see her. She cannot see us. An adequate supply of prey animals lives and breeds in the self-contained world. Barring accidents, we may yet see a breeding population in captivity."

"Keep me informed, professor." Johanna requested, captivated by a brand-new animal species. "I really came to esk ebout the other thing,"

"Oh yes. The command from the Patrician. There are Faculty members here overseeing that, if you'll come this way."

The Professor led Johanna through a door marked "Warning! High-Energy Research Laboratory. Entry to authorised personnel only". A background whisper suddenly became a babble of arguing voices, some petulant, some determined, one harrumphing. Johanna smiled, knowing _exactly_ what she was letting herself in for.

"Good morning, Arch-chancellor!" she said, politely. "I hear the Patrician hes lended a little problem on us?"

Mustrum Ridcully smiled back at her.

"Sorry to bring it to yer Zoo, m'dear, but our out-station here appeared to be the best place." He took her arm – only a Ridcully could make the gallant gesture of taking a female Assassin by the arm, without fear - and led her to the Great Work.

"And this is it." he said, stepping aside.

"City eggs." she mused, having read the file in a hurry. "Well, they _look _harmless enough…"

"But they hatched into something that dem-well defeated us!" said Ridcully. "I'm not having _that_ again in my city! So that's why I rounded up the men, when Sam's Watch patrol reported in with a basketful of eggs, and we set this up."

Johanna nodded at the other faculty members – she was disappointed to see Ponder wasn't there – then glared at the clear glass box, bound by octiron straps, sitting inside the meticulously drawn octangle. A total of eight of the ludicrously-unthreatening looking City Eggs were inside the box.

"Stasis field." Ridcully explained. "We've stopped the flow of time inside that octagram. Nothing can move, nothing can grow. Those eggs will never hatch out, at least, not till we've worked out what to do with them. By the way, young Stibbons sends apologies. Vetinari's given him a different list of tasks, and that's kept him at the University. He wants to see you, anyway, ask yer advice about a few things".

"Mr Ridcully, what cen you tell me about this, er, Hive? I've heard a few rumours, so I'm keen to hear truth. "

Ridcully shuddered.

"Apparently we didn't kill it completely dead last time" he explained. "Vetinari wasn't happy about that. Says he's got a mind to use you people next time. Right now, he's thinking about a, what was it, multi-disciplinary task-force, to go in and report back."

"Please stert from the beginning, Arch-Chencellor?" she requested, a growing sense of excitement building within her, as Ridcully told the tale of the Hive and the shopping trolleys.

_Why was I not told this before? Whoever the Assassins' Guild sends on this multi-disciplinary task-force, if it isn't __**me**__, then I'm inhuming or at least disabling people until it is! _

"Vetinari wants you and young Ponder to be two of the team to go in. Ponder's goin' to be triallin' this remote relay link to HEX that he's been devisin', so you've got back-up and Mission Control can watch what you're doin'. Patrician thinks a mixed force of Watch, Wizards and Assassins should have the right skills-set for all eventualities. Whatever one of _those_ is."

Johanna looked around at the tired and dropping Faculty members, who barely had the strength and motivation left to argue.

"It must hev been a long night for you!" she said, sympathetically. Ridcully nodded.

"Some sorts of magic take it out on you. Although them dam' eggs are now safe. We've built in a few alarm spells too, just in case anyone meddles with the octagram or the containment box. You'll hear it, if it goes off. Now where can a fella get a bite of breakfast round here?"

"There's the Zoo Diner." Johanna said, doubtfully. She was prepared to advance a single free all-day-breakfast each to her guests, but was dubious of what Wizard-sized appetites could do to the profit margin, and to the kitchen stores, if she made it "all you can eat". She doubted a normal-sized serving each would be adequate for University-trained appetites.

"Splendid! We'll try it out, m'dear. Right, on your feet, men! Miss Smith-Rhodes here is going to show us all where to get breakfast!"

"First serving _only_ is complimentery!" she said, making a commercial decision. "Efter thet, gentlemen, you _pey_, es I hev a business to run!"

She excused herself, and ran round to the back door of the Diner, seeking out Tina Sugarbean, a member of the family who had provided the City with some of its best plain cooks and kitchen managers.

"Tina" she said, carefully, "I'm really sorry to hev to do this to you, but you hev a busy morning. Look efter the Wizards, and I'll see you all get a bonus for the extra work."

Tina grimaced, and called her staff together. In the distance, gargantuan appetites honed by a night's magic could be heard approaching.

"I don't suppose there's a spare elephant I could spit-roast, is there?" Tina grumbled.

Johanna decided to face the inevitable.

"Better clecks our suppliers. They cen completely restock you within the hour. My authority." she said, looking stern at the thought of the coming onslaught.

Then she rolled her sleeves up.

"Perheps I cen wesh up, or something. We're going to be _busy_!"

* * *

Philip Holtack felt an uncharacteristic gloom settling on him as his patrol advanced down Lecky Road, in the direction of Anne Street and its eventual merging into Foyle Road, the arterial roadway that passed along the west bank of the Foyle, keeping pace with its opposite highway, Victoria Road, on the Protestant East bank of the Foyle. He'd led patrols down here a dozen times, if he'd done it once; the route, through the Catholic heartlands of Shantallow and the Bogside, was getting almost as familiar to him as the A6 to Manchester that had run past the front gate of his school.

Lower Lecky was a hitherto disregarded, rather mean, street, with some of the city's shabbier council houses crowding the road to each side. For part of its length, it was overshadowed by the flyover section of Barrack Street, a busy main road that ultimately connected Londonderry not only with its western suburbs but allowed access to roads leading West, into the Republic. Barrack Street fed out of the East bank via the city's only road bridge over the river.

The patrol quickly checked the space underneath the flyover; Holtack could not think of a better place to put a large bomb in order to cause the maximum economic damage, save on the bridge proper. And that was well-guarded and doubly secure, in that even the Provisionals had to go shopping on the east side now and again.

"Clear!" called Fusilier Williams, from under a large and surprisingly literate graffito calling for an "_End to internment via remand, now!" _

He nodded, and they moved on.

In the heart of enemy country, the patrol took care as it proceeded down Lecky to Anne Street. It encountered nothing more troubling than hostile stares, but even so, the quiet and the normality of it was worrying. And something that could worry and demoralise a reflective soldier was the continual realisation of how _British_ it all was. OK, so the locals had overpainted the pillar boxes green and sought to chip and angle-grind the British royal coats-of-arms off the front: but everything else, the street layout, the street furniture, the roadsigns, was all resolutely _British._ Even the design of the council houses, the typical mean little boxes that councils everywhere erected at the cheapest possible cost for their poorer citizens to live in, was classically British.

Sergeant Williams had remarked as much – add a few Welsh accents, and roadsigns pointing to Caergwrle and Cartrefle, and this could be Queen's Park.**(5)**

It worried the more thoughtful Toms. What if, at some point in the future, law and order broke down in British cities, maybe even in my town, and a well-trained Army gets sent in to exploit all the training it's had here? You can't say we ain't been trained for it over here. And what if it's a mining town? Look at the way they've sent the bloody police in to beast striking miners. Do you resist? Do you even refuse the order? Do you go all the way and fight the police who are beasting our people? Say if it were Merthyr or a mining town in South Wales? That makes it _personal_, mun!

Holtack shuddered.

Mail from many homes concerned the Strike and how bloody it was getting. He knew a lot of soldiers' pay was going back to Wales to help out families who were affected. He even knew some of his lads, on home leaves, were showing solidarity by going out on the picket lines – he'd been bound to warn them not to get arrested by the woolybacks, as this would inevitably mean their being posted AWOL and subsequent military discipline. Like other officers, he was worried about the potential for serious trouble if the Regiment was posted back to Britain and ordered to "support the civil power" – ie, back up the police on the picket lines. He worried that there would be flat refusal to obey the order, or that some Toms, seeing a fellow miner being beaten up by coppers, would employ their rifle butts and batons to teach the police a lesson about beating up striking Welsh miners. There had been heated talk about it while watching the TV news – not every soldier was sympathetic to the police and the authorities. By no means. He dutifully reported back to the Colonel about the mens' mood, as did other platoon officers, and the Colonel had responded by ringing round his peers commanding other battalions drawn from mining and steelworking areas. Some sort of joint petition had gone, off the record, to the General, begging him to advise the politicians not to even think about it.

And some bright spark on the IRA side had obliged by painting up, on a wall overlooking the exit gate of the Shirt Factory where every Tom would see it, the one word

"Tonypandy".

This made a change from the usual badly-spelt slogan "Cumry Ryhdd!" that tended to follow them around. Sergeant Williams dreamt of the day he could catch the local wall-artists doing it, so he could teach them the correct spelling of "Free Wales!"**(6)**

This was worse. Tonypandy was a part of Welsh legend now. It related to an earlier miners' strike, in 1912, where a home secretary called Winston Churchill had sent in soldiers to the mine at Tonypandy, who had shot dead twelve striking miners. On several occasions during the war, the Prime Minister had been jeered and barracked by mutinous Welsh soldiers and sailors who remembered Tonypandy, and weren't prepared to listen to assurances of a country fit for heroes after the war. Not from Churchill, anyway.

_Just do the job in front of you. It could all be over by the time we get home, anyway. _

St Columba's Walls passed by on the left. The landscaped hill and gardens behind, Holtack remembered, were some sort of training school for Catholic priests. He had been cautioned, like all other officers and NCO's, that Catholic church property was off-limits and could only be entered in emergency, or only with permission from very high up. Holtack had also heard of a Royal Marines patrol in Belfast that had been shot at by an IRA unit from the local church. Refused permission to enter and pursue, they had then gleefully shot out all the stained-glass windows on one side, as a message to the priest about letting terrorists use his church. This had been put down to collateral damage during a fire-fight, sir!

The walls, which retained the earth of the hill, had been heavily graffiti'd and painted over. Some of it was quite nice – butterflies on a blue background. The rest was a litany of local IRA martyrs from the troubles.

He forced himself to stay alert. The mean shabby little council houses were still on one side of the road. They needed watching. As did the Bluebell Arms, a known IRA pub, where their passing had surely been noted and timed.

And…. _oh no, the bookies' shop next to the food store. Had it just been __**here**__, in that dream? … _Holtack took a deep breath. Even if it had been, things were quiet here now, in reality (_remember that word?)_ and that's what mattered.

As was Lieutenant Green's patrol, coming up from Anne Street in the opposite direction.

"Just castling!" called Green, cheerfully, as they passed.

Holtack grinned. Gan wasn't a bad bloke or a poor officer. And he did have some sort of foot problem that the insanitary conditions of the Shirt Factory didn't help. The MO was sending him to hospital for examination, which would no doubt have Catholic staff at Altnagelvin muttering about the Brits stooping so low as to use bacteriological and chemical warfare.

The two patrols traded information, what little they had, and Gan agreed that it felt as if the buggers were storing up trouble for later. "It was too damn quiet. But if they see we're out in force, it might deter them, you never know."

The two patrols parted, Holtack to travel round Anne Street, then onto Ann Street (he wondered about that one) and then round the Foyle Road, until the correct left-turns guided him back to Lecky again.

_It's like being a postman, it really is…_

He nodded at Lance-corporal Williams.

"Ok, let's get moving. Straight ahead.."

The patrol resumed its positions, spaced out so that a bomb was unlikely to get all of them at once, Fusiliers Hughes and Ruijterman covering their rear.

And the wide mean streets of Stroke City swallowed them up, eight men in uniform, doing the job that was in front of them…

* * *

**(1) **See my story _**Nature Studies. **_

**(2)** The victim had died of thirst and exposure before feeling any discomfort in shoulders and hips.

**(3) **As has been noted elsewhere, a certain sort of well-bred teenage girl, who would prefer to die painfully rather than tidy her bedroom, can always be relied upon to don wellies, pick up a shovel and wheelbarrow, and muck out the filthiest of animal enclosures. Especially if new babies are involved.

**(4) **This had prehensile front fins with an opposed module on the end of each fin. An amphibian rather than a true fish, it slithered off into the jungle, made its own bow and arrows, and laid in wait in the shallows to mug passing pirhana. A shoal of archer fish had been known to decimate an otherwise deadly school of pirhana in open combat, with well-placed arrow storms.

**(5) Queen's Park: **a notorious council estate (American readers, think _housing project_) in the city of Wrexham. Now a poverty sink following the collapse of heavy and light industry in North-East Wales, Wrecsam Maelor council tried camouflaging it by renaming it the _Caia._ It didn't work…

**(6) **Yes, _just_ like the Latin lesson applied by a furious John Cleese in "Python's Life of Brian". "People called Romans they go the house? What sort of Latin is _that_?" Oh, and the proper spelling is _Cymru Rhydd_. It's amazing how many variations you can get on that - and all wrong.


	10. Transition one

_**Slipping Between Worlds 10**_

_**The Hive site, Ankh-Morpork.**_

The ad-hoc "multi-disciplinary force" gathered around its nominated leaders, the Watch sergeant Angua von Überwald, and the Assassin Johanna-Smith Rhodes.

Pairing Angua and Johanna as leaders had been a good choice on the part of Commander Vimes. Angua was the de-facto third in command of the City Watch and used to high-level leadership assignments. Johanna was the only Assassin ever to have made it as a Watch special constable: she had once saved Vimes' life**(1)**, against the usual run of his experience with Assassins, who had hitherto attempted to achieve the opposite. He had rewarded her with Watch membership, on the grounds that her particular talents would be occasionally useful; and also because he wanted to keep the only one of the buggers who had demonstrated she could come anywhere _near_ inhuming him _exactly_ where he could see her.

Johanna and Angua had been tasked with leopard-hunting together**(2) **and had built up a rapport and mutual understanding that made them obvious beat partners for those _special_ animal-handling cases.

They looked over their operating team for the mission.

Watch constable Precious Jolson, brought along because of her physical strength, her ability to port heavy equipment, and because of her own unique animal-handling expertise - six foot six and over two hundred pounds of muscle and sinew and bone, in her spare time she bred exotic cage-birds with infinite gentleness and delicacy. Johanna had been trying to poach her as keeper for the Zoo collection for quite some time, but had to be content with her for one day a week. It was thought that the more animal-orientated minds on this expedition, the better, as somebody might be able to intuit something about the nature of the creature they were dealing with.

Dwarf sergeant Cheery Littlebottom, the Watch's forensic alchemist, with her axe in both hands and the valuable SOCO alchemy pack at her back. She was accompanied by the Watch Igor, whose anatomical knowledge would come in useful, as well as his medical skills.

Constables Brakenspear and Littlehampton, both Dwarfs. were each in full Knockerman rig, like mobile leather and silk cones, as they were both carrying the deadly flame-projecting tool originally devised to tackle pockets of firedamp in deep mines. Exported to Ankh-Morpork, the technology's applications as a lethal weapon had placed it on the banned list, alongside _gonnes_ and one-shottes – it had taken special dispensation from Vimes and Vetinari to allow two such devices to be carried on this mission. They also carried slung axes as their personal weapons, in case the technology failed.

The Guild of Assassins had provided three senior students, a year away from obtaining their Full Black, who Johanna had trained in setting and safely exploding explosives charges. She also had its best theoretical mind, the licenced Assassin Arthur Clevedon Clarke.**(3)**

Like Leonard of Quirm, Arthur was a walking Ground Zero for inspiration particles. His fertile mind made him both an asset and a danger to the Guild, as in his study of Agatean "barking dog" weaponry, he had miniaturised the huge unwieldy Agatean cannon into a smaller, more practical, form that could be aimed and fired with one hand. Lord Downey, prompted by Vetinari, had impounded the prototype _hand-cannon _and sent Clarke to the University as a liaison officer on the Roundworld project, where he could be out of harm's way. Clarke was otherwise an example of the sort of enthusiastic and energetic young man who had relished the challenge of qualifying as an Assassin, but who had never practiced the Art after graduating. Johanna privately thought he didn't have a single killing instinct in his body, and that the climactic act of Assassination was totally foreign to him, but she admired his mind and intellect.

Which led her to…

Professor Ponder Stibbons, toting a back-pack full of equipment, and a borrowed Assassin waist-belt with ample pouches so that he could get to certain items quickly and at need. She smiled at him, reassuringly: she had very good, very personal, reasons for wanting to keep him safe and out of danger. Ponder wasn't built or trained for conventional fighting, although she'd made it her business to pass on a few basic Assassin skills to make her man more worldly-wise.

Ponder was talking into what looked like a lady's compact mirror and make-up accessory. She knew it was a shaped and framed fragment of an omniscope, which was tuned into a master console at the University that had originally been part of the same magic mirror. Both HEX, the University's thinking machine, and a duty watcher at the High Energy Magic Building, would monitor the progress of the expedition and be on hand to offer advice. The control team also included Assassins and Commander Vimes of the Watch.

"Roger on that, Sunray." Ponder said. He waited for the reply, wondering exactly why HEX had chosen those code-words for the Mission Controller. The face of Mustrum Ridcully swung into sight.

"Hearin' you loud and clear, Alpha-Papa-Whiskey!" boomed Ridcully.

"You _are_ meant to sign off with "roger", Arch-Chancellor!" an unseen voice prompted.

"I blasted well hope he's _not_!" Ridcully boomed. "The lad and that gel of his should have their minds firmly on the job, not on this rogerin'. … the way they go on, they behave as if they blasted well _invented_ it…"

Johanna flushed red. There were muffled giggles. At the other end of the omniscope, there was a whispered and indistinct conversation.

"Oh, I _see_. Different sort of "roger". I'll never get the hang of this, Sam."

Vimes took control.

"Reading you loud and clear, Alpha-Papa-Whiskey. All set to go? Roger." Then Vimes went on: "Alpha is "A". For _Assassins_. Whiskey is "W". For _Wizards_. My Watchmen are Papa. That's "P" for "_Police_", as "W" is already taken. There's a logic to it, Mustrum."

"All systems clear and equipment checked. Ready to go in. If reception downstairs is a washout, I'll establish a relay station. Roger!" said Ponder, who had also flushed a guilty red.

"Roger and out, Alpha-Papa-Whiskey. Good luck!"

Johanna detailed the mission's third wizard to act as surface guard, look after an omniscope fragment with his very life, and be prepared to act as relay if necessary. She didn't like Doctor Bernard Goatly. Ponder had told her Goatly had only got his doctorate by effectively blackmailing his Head of Department**(4)**, and she did not like his cocky manner one little bit. He seemed to think wearing the skull-ring of a necromancer made him a babe-magnet, and she had already slapped down one clumsy pass._ ("When I'm dead. I'll let you know. And even then it's still going to be no, alright?") _

Goatly had still been able to fire off one last piece of sexism, at Watch Constable Jolson.

"Hey, Precious, have you ever been mistaken for a man?"

She turned a narrowing eye to him, and replied

"No, Have _you_?"

Precious Jolson, a naturally shy and retiring girl, had toughened up on the streets and learnt to give as good as she got. Her comeback neatly silenced Goatly and provoked laughter.

Johanna then turned to the mission's third Wizard, who was standing in a miserable huddle, with a briefed Assassin Clarke standing behind him with a drawn sword. Clarke was abstractedly talking to him about how steel from Toledo was probably the best in the human world, matched only by Agatean sword craftsmanship.

"Lead the way, Professor Rincewind!" she commanded.

Rincewind would be as good a danger detector as a canary in a dwarf-mine. This made him indispensable. He appeared to be counting on his fingers, as if expecting something to be said or done.

"OK, people. Let's _rock_!"

Rincewind nodded, soberly, and stopped counting.

"That's _exactly_ what I'm afraid of!"

The mixed assortment of adventurers then entered the subterranean, alien, world of the Hive. One by one, with the very reluctant Rincewind amiably jollied along by a block of Assassins just behind him, they descended the curious flowing-metal steps and vanished into the dark. Goatly nervously reached for his cigarettes, still stung by the put-down. It was going to be a long, lonely, wait…

_**Londonderry. Rossville Street. Evening. **_

There had only been a handful of minor incidents on the patrol. Holtack wondered if the sheer weight of Army on the streets was acting as a deterrent to any serious activity. Groups of girls, and lads emboldened by the girls, waiting for buses into the City so serious drinking could begin, had fired the usual sorts of abuse at the Toms, who had replied in kind as only irritated Welshmen can.

One of the more incautious ones had refused to move out of the way for Fusilier Powell, playing a kind of "chicken" with him on the pavement. In the end, virtually nose-to-nose with the yobbo, Powell had grabbed him by the scruff.

"Let's make this clear, boyo" Powell had said, lifting and shaking him one-handed. "On those here streets, _you_ makes way for _me._ You do not (shake) try to walk through me. (shake) You walks _around_ me. (shake) Am I making myself understood yere?" (throws yob bodily into gutter).

Holtack nodded, appreciatively. While the yobs got the message and shrank back into the walls as the section passed, the first badly-thrown stone landed behind them as they put space between the army and the locals.

He had resolved this by calling forward Forty-Seven Williams and Own-Goal Owens, who had the riot round dischargers rather than SLR's.

Faced with retaliation by plastic bullet, the yobbery quickly melted away.

And a little further on, they'd seen…

… the old black-clad bag-lady with the shopping trolley.

"Williams, Powell, try to detain her!" Holtack had called to the nearest Toms. "But be gentle and don't let her lead you into any dark corners!"

The two Fusilers had chased her to St Columb's Well, a notorious side-street, narrow and with two wicked right-angled bends. Patrols had been bounced in there before. Things had been dropped from overhead.

Williams came back, shaking his head. Powell not far behind.

"She's vanished".

"Pity. I was hoping she might solve the mystery that kept us up all night. Ah well, there'll be another chance!"

They followed a distant rumbling noise up towards Rossville. There had been very little traffic on the street. And the locals had been silent and largely absent. Holtack put the two together.

He wasn't surprised to see hastily parked police and Army vehicles, and a cordon of soldiers strung out blocking the road. Riot barriers were being hastily erected. Holtack's patrol moved into the relative safety of the enclave delineated by the vehicles and two lots of riot barriers, some four hundred yards apart.

Major Wynne Parry-Jones, the second in command, was holding an impromptu O-group in the shelter offered between two armoured vehicles. Holtack went to report in, deploying his patrol to help cover the southern barrier.

"Ah, Philip!" he said, happily. "Remember Intelligence reported there'd be an attempt to plant a car-bomb tonight to spoil Doctor Paisely's day out in the sun tomorrow? Well, I think we've found it. Or at least a candidate. We're just making safe and waiting for friends from the Ordnance Corps to join the party."

"It looks as if the Provos have already put the word out to evacuate the area and go and see their old granny, or go to confession, or something." said Tim Endion-Williams, thoughtfully. We tried to knock on doors and advise the locals to evacuate, but it seems we've been beaten to it. Apparently "community representatives" got there first!"

"Which is why we're taking it extremely seriously!." the Major added. "Well, we've cleared and secured the area, there's a bit of fuss higher up from some hotheads who aren't happy we're not allowing them to return to their homes as yet, and your Toms are watching the southern approach, good. Can't do a damn thing now until the licenced lunatics from Bomb Disposal get here."

"Isn't it a bit of an own goal for them, sir? I mean, blowing their own streets up?"

The major laughed, mirthlessly. "Philip, for somebody with an admirably skewed mind, you can be surprisingly innocent! Look around you. Remember part of the back history of this whole sorry mess is that the Catholics were complaining, back in sixty-nine, that they were discriminated against for housing and the Prots were porking the best for themselves. Looking at these poky little slums, it's not hard to agree they might have a valid grievance Yes? I bet not much has been done to _these _since they were built by way of improvements and upgrades. Prot-dominated city council, need I say more? They've evacuated, so nobody on their side gets hurt. Blow a block up, and with the eyes of the world upon them, the Unionist-dominated Londonderry City Council _has_ to bite the bullet, and rebuild their council houses. And to an acceptable standard. London insists on that."

The Major nodded, sagely. "A bit extreme, I suppose, but if your local council can't or more likely won't upgrade its council stock on this side of the river, then…" he shrugged.

"And it also puts a crimp in the Prot parade route for tomorrow if the street they want to march on is blocked by rubble. From PIRA's point of view, a win-win situation. Now where's that blasted bomb disposal crew?"

He turned to pep up his radio operator, who was in the relative safety of a Landrover.

"No, no, that simply won't _do_, Pritchard! What have you all been taught about using Welsh _en clair_? It was a nice idea in 1940, and I concede the Yanks learnt it from us when they trained Apache Indians or whatever damn tribe to be their radio operators, but it's become a smaller world since. People have got _wise_ to it! I mean, the local university teaches Welsh, for one thing, and look at the number of copies of "Teach yourself Welsh" our house-searches persist in turning up! By rights, there should be more Welsh-speakers in this city than in Anglesey and Caernarfon put together! Pritchard, _do_ use the standard codes, as taught? Thank you _so_ much!"

Holtack grinned. It was true. The Regiment had foxed the Germans, the Italians and later the Japanese by using Welsh-speaking radio operators. And the first American observers had thought creatively about the principle involved, by recommending Navaho Indians be trained as signallers for the American Army. But it had come to an abrupt halt in 1943 when it had been belatedly realised, after a couple of operational setbacks, that a major Berlin university taught Celtic Studies**(5)** and the Wehrmacht had Welsh-speakers available to it. As well as a fear that some disaffected Welsh Nats, like their Irish counterparts, had thrown their lot in with Germany. It had still been used by the Regiment's signallers in the Far East, as the chances of there being Welsh-speaking Japanese was held to be vanishingly small.

And the University of Ulster at Coleraine, just up the coast, had its Department of Celtic Languages…

With seeming innocence, the Colonel had proposed to the local Sinn Fein councillors that as so many people we meet, in admittedly less-than-ideal circumstances, seemed keen on learning Welsh, we'd be happy for volunteer soldiers to lead lessons. Call it an exercise in giving something back to the community, perhaps? We're pleased so many of you appear to be making the effort! The offer had been politely and diplomatically refused.

There was a commotion higher up the street. A landrover was making its way into the enclave, waiting patiently as Fusiliers pushed back the crowd of locals, allowing it to enter. It motored past the suspect vehicle with barely a glance – Holtack admired the driver for his nerve – and parked up close to the other vehicles. A large, confident-looking, officer in his forties bounded out of the cab and rushed to make himself known.

Holtack thought there was something odd about the officer; his beret did not have a recognisable cap badge on it, and the rank badges on his epaulettes were…

"Who's in charge here, laddie?" the newcomer asked him. Holtack glanced down at the rank badges again. White and silver bands, one looped, on a dark blue background… _Of course. Royal Navy. _

"Follow me, sir. Er… Lieutenant –Commander?" _I hope I got that right. I haven't done Navy ranks since that test at Sandhurst. _

The sailor laughed, appreciatively.

"So you pongoes _do _get taught about things that matter!"

"Good Lord" said the Major, "Is the Army running out of bomb disposal officers?"

"Hardly that, Major" said the sailor. "We pointed out that the Royal Navy and the Air Force also have bomb disposal officers, and it made operational sense for us to be posted out here to take some of the burden off our Army colleagues' shoulders. Also good for rounding out our training."

"You _volunteered_ for a tour of duty? Good Lord!"

"There is a precedent, Major.. We lend you the Royal Marines to do their share of tours out here, and you also get the RAF Regiment, when they can spare time from all the ceremonial drill they do. And I did a tour in the Falklands after the war, making safe those minefields the Argies planted everywhere but somehow forgot to map."

_Christ. I forgot about the Falklands when I was wondering where we'd be posted next. And it'll be midwinter down there._

"Anyway. We'll get the robot out of the back, and set up to check this suspect of yours."

The cheerful sailor looked down the street towards the suspect van, two hundred yards away. Holtack saw it was posted outside a bookies. And a very familiar looking Post Office. His heart sank. He'd been here before, in a bad dream. And there was also…

"Could this bright spark of yours, who knows his Navy ranks, do something about that old lady?"

But Holtack was already running, to intercept the old woman with the shopping trolley, pulling down the visor on his riot helmet for all the illusory safety it gave him, like the other talismans he carried. She had appeared in the street, crossing, pushing her trolley, perilously near to the suspect bomb…

_Just do the job that's in front of you…_

Something went _spang_! on the tarmac and skeetered screaming off to his right. A crack followed from over to his left.

_And now a sniper. Lovely! _

Anger and fear fuelled him as he zig-zagged to the old lady, who appeared taken by surprise. He grabbed her arm, trying not to gag at the unwashed old-lady smell.

_I probably smell as bad to her…_

To his surprise, she resisted.

"_Not without Guilty!"_ she cried. Holtack reflected. Maybe there was enough metal in that trolley to at least deflect a bullet.. he dashed around, putting the trolley between him and the direction of the shot, and ducked low, pushing it for dear life, practically dragging the old lady by the arm. . Blood pounding in his ears, he heard distant shouts, then shots.

_Upstairs right-hand window, house painted pale green! See it? Muzzle flash!_

Another bullet impacted and danced past Holtack. Although he knew the returned fire was putting off the sniper, who if he had any sense should have been over the roofs and far away by now, he wondered how long his luck was going to last. He saw Powell and Hughes racing up to hem, with Hughes adding his weight to ther trolley and Powell grabbing the old lady, Hughes assisting in pushing the trolley out of the line of fire. Sergeant Williams was there, loudly indicating which way to run. And Fusilier Riujterman was calmly, steadily, matching the invisible sniper round for round.

_Cor, sir, she does not half stink! _

And then the sound of a bullet, ripping through the air with a noise like tearing paper. They said if a round was so close you could hear it, you were too close. And the other thing about a round passing so close…A high-velocity bullet heats the air as it passes. It creates a localised channel at around 3.000ºC around itself. Although this quickly cools and extend no further than a couple of inches out from the round, it could still lacerate flesh if it passes closely enough.

And on top of that, a screaming maniac polecat or something, maybe a ferret or a weasel or a wolverine, chose now to leap out of the unspeakable depths and attempt to claw a hole in his face… it was prevented by the clear Perspex of the riot helmet visor, which had partially melted on one side as it warded off the near-miss. Sergeant Williams was suddenly in there, dragging the animal off as the woman screamed incoherently and tried to reach her trolley.

And nearby, a cheap digital clock ticked away the last few seconds. As it reached 0000, a relay tripped and a switch activated to close a circuit.

Mrs Tachyon lunged forwards and slapped one of the black bin-bags in the trolley. There was a whoosh as of escaping air…

And an electrical impulse passed into the detonator. Setting off a mathematically precise sequence of events.

And to an accompaniment of mind-buggering noise, Mrs Tachyon, Guilty the cat, her shopping trolley, and an officer and five men of the British Army, all ceased to exist on a Northern Irish street.

It was said afterwards that six hundred pounds of explosive had probably been _overkill._ But as it was, not a trace of Lieutenant Holtack, P, Sergeant Williams, D, or Fusiliers Ruijterman, H, Hughes, P, 47 Williams, E, and Powell, J.J., was ever found in the rubble. Nor the mystery woman Holtack had selflessly tried to save, for which he'd been awarded a posthumous medal.

* * *

**(1) **See my story _**Nature Srudies**_

**(2)** See my story _**Whys and Weres**_

**(3) **Arthur C. Clarke makes his debut in my story _**…but not forgotten. **_

**(4) **Refer to Terry Pratchett's _**Making Money.**_

**(5) **_"the dawn languages of the pure Aryan peoples on the fringes of Europe…"_


	11. Transition 2

_**Slipping Between Worlds 11**_

_I suppose at some point I should shove a disclaimer in. Yes, it all belongs to Terry Pratchett, and even the occasional characters and new settings I've developed were ultimately shaped in moulds of his creation. But boy, I'd love to try and make some money at this if it wasn't for the feeling that (i) it ain't nice and (ii) Sir Terry can afford better lawyers than me. so I'd better work on my own voice and my own characters - as I'm seeking to do in the non-Discworld parts of this fiction. _

_**Ankh-Morpork.**_

As always happens, while great things were going on that had the potential to completely change the course of the Disc, the millions of sentient beings who made up its population were changing its history, incrementally, in a million smaller and less portentous ways.

Unlicenced Thief Matthew Fagin carefully sized up the unconscious figure in the alley. The mark's clothing was unfamiliar, but it looked as if he were wearing damn good quality boots. He would _have _those. And something looking like a complex walking stick was in his right hand. It was worth investigating. Even so, he was proceeding with caution. Things in this city were never quite what they seemed to be at first glance.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the sword-fighting arena at the Assassins' Guild School, the two fighters bowed ritually to each other. The packed galleries above hushed. They knew something like this was going to be pretty special. The betting edged one of the two out as favourite, but only just. And for once, the unfavoured fighter was the Guild's sword-fighting teacher, Madame Emmanuelle-Marie Lapoignard les Deux- Épées. The smart money, given the nature of the bout, was on Koukouchou-sama, Miss Pretty Butterfly, the Teacher of Agatean Culture and Language.

The two fighters were dressed in the white pyjama-like _gi, _barefoot, and distinguished only by Butterfly's black belt of a seventh-_djim sensai _of the art. In contrast, Emmanuelle, although a fast learner, had only attained the red belt of the fourth-_djim_. On paper, the bout was Butterfly's.

The _bokken_ swung and met in a dull thud. By agreement, they were not using the lethal _katakana, _the killing sword of the samurai. Instead they were using the practice swords, which were in hardwood, of the same length, shape and balance. But they could still bruise when they hit.

For the next half-hour, the watchers were treated to sword-fighting Agatean style, delivered with sublime grace and speed and athleticism. Butterfly's only sword-fighting experience had been with Agatean weapons; Emmanuelle by contrast was skilled in the Quirmian épée, the Überwaldean duelling _schlange, _the Klatchian scimitar, the Morporkian cavalry sabre, and a host of other bladed weapons. Her breadth of expertise was quickly adapting both to an unfamiliar weapon, and the formal conventions of its use. Emmanuelle was not jealous of her talents, and was teaching Butterfly sword-fighting in the Central Continent style, in return for master training in _kendo, _the Way of the Sword. 

But their training bouts always drew admiring watchers, students, staff, and fully licenced Assassins alike.

The reason was not hard to see. The two women danced and leapt around the practice area at a dizzying speed, the wooden swords meeting, clashing, and deflecting blows that could have lopped off a limb, often at the very last second. It also helped, of course, that they were both very easy on the eye, a reason why some older Assassins had discreetly brought opera glasses.

Lord Downey was slightly disgruntled when the official message from Vetinari arrived towards the end of the bout, with Butterfly leading marginally on points. It demanded his presence at the Palace, with no great rush.

He sighed, and tapped Mr Nivor on the shoulder.

"Tell me how it ends, would you? And if it comes down to it, collect my winnings for me?"

He left, regretfully, to answer the summons, accompanying the Dark Clerk who had delivered it.

A few minutes later in the arena, a sweat-slicked Butterfly made the first of two errors that would decide the bout. She landed awkwardly, and after forty minutes of intense fighting, slipped and fell.

Emmanuelle then made the second error.

She attempted to win the bout in the Ankh-Morporkian manner, placing the tip of her sword to Butterfly's exposed throat.

But this bout was to Agatean rules. As Emmanuelle spoke the first syllable of "Do you yield?", Butterfly's sword swept up and struck Emmanuelle's under the hilt, hard, knocking it from her hand and disarming her.

Knowing she could not possibly retrieve it, Emmanuelle smiled philosophically.

"I yield." she said, simply. "_Je me rendres_".

She helped Butterfly to her feet, and both stood, breathing heavily. Then they bowed deep to each other in the Agatean manner.

This was followed by a long delighted hug, in the Morporkian manner.

The galleries burst into standing applause, and the first betting winnings were passed over, with the Guild-approved degree of good grace and gentlemanly behaviour. Well, it was _taught _to Guild pupils.

"Emmie-chan, you nearly beat me there. Several times!" said Butterfly. "I shall have to think of advancing you to the fifth _djim_!"

"Next time with sabres, _ma chêrie_!" Emmanuelle declared. "We will see how far advanced you are with _those_!"

* * *

Fagin was carefully approaching the unconscious mark, noting the strange multicolour motley of his clothing. Some sort of Fool's rig? If so, it was strangely muted. Patches and streaks of beige, brown and black on a green base. What sort of Fool wore that?

He stopped dead. The mark was groaning and stirring. He ducked into a patch of darkness to observe. He still wanted those boots. They looked just his size. And the walking stick near him. About two thirds of the way along its length, there was a mechanism of some sort, with an obvious trigger. Fagin frowned. Some sort of slapstick?

And then the stranger sat up…

* * *

The exploratory party inside the Hive fanned out into what Rincewind could not help but suspect was the main stomach of the thing. And the thing about being inside a stomach was that sooner or later there would be digestive acids. That was why he couldn't trust the Omnian story about the prophet Nonpo, who had allegedly spent nine days inside a whale's stomach before being vomited up onto a seashore. Either the whale had been seriously off its food, or there can't have been much left of Nonpo when he left the whale. The alternative exit route was more likely, as Rincewind suspected Nonpo must have been down on his luck to Rincewindean standards. _That_ method of being expelled from a whale, he could accept. Especially since a God had put him in there in the first place, and _those_ buggers had a fairly basic sense of humour.**(1)**

Rincewind jumped as he heard something scuttle, overhead. The Assassin, Arthur, loosened his sword in its scabbard.

"I heard it too" he said. "Probably rats".

But something in his face said otherwise.

Elsewhere, Johanna looked over her shoulder.

"Where are the dwarfs?" she asked Angua. Angua looked back to the entrance tunnel, where three excited Dwarfs were discussing the intrinsic tunnel-supports the thing built into its tubes as standard.

They were animatedly discussing how this could _revolutionise_ tunnelling. And these plates, right, they _interlock,_ so the pressure of earth and rock from outside makes them lock tighter! Just wait till this gets out!

"If we can remember we belong to the Watch, please!" Angua shouted, loudly. "You can be Dwarfs again when you clock off!"

They ran forward to join the rest of the party. There was more overhead skittering and scratching in the squared-off tubing.

Johanna gathered her student Assassins and spoke to them urgently.

"Do you remember the lecture I organised for you, with Mr Wee Med Erthur?" she reminded them. "He spoke to us ebout his job. How he hes to set end light to up to a dozen bombs inside a wesps' nest, fighting them ell the whole, making sure he escepes before they blow. I em esking you to set large charges in this place end put them on time-fuses, so thet they will explode efter we leave. You hev done this many times in training, do not forget. This live essignment should pose you few problems, provided you remember your training. This will be easier for us than for Mr Erthur, es et the moment, I perceive no wesps. Let us consider where to plece our charges. Ideas, please, mr Kerrigan?"

Johanna and her students looked up as something skittered in a pipe immediately above them. It appeared to be following them.

"And es one of you lays a charge, another stends guard with their pistol crossbows. If you hev not loaded, do so **now**. Sefety cetches _off_!"

Ponder Stibbons was dutifully reporting back to the HEM as ever stage progressed.

"Student Assassins are setting demolition charges now, under the direction of Miss Smith-Rhodes. Over.

"We are aware of the noises in the overhead piping that the previous exploration team reported. So far we are under no threat. Over.

"Professor Rincewind and Sergeant Angua have returned to the position where the city eggs were found. Over. There appear to be up to a thousand of them there now. Over. Constables Brakenspear and Littlehampton are standing by and will destroy them on your orders. Over."

"Stand by" the distant voice of Vimes requested. "Take no overt action yet. I advise awaiting for the A-Team to complete setting their bombs first. Johanna, how much time does the fuse give you on that Agatean Fireclay?"

"Five, ten, fifteen, or twenty minutes, Mr Vimes." Johanna advised. "They are chemical fuses, so once ignited, the reaction cennot be helted. I edvise setting for twenty. This ellows time to safely evacuate the area".

There was a muffled distant conversation at the other end of the line. Then a new voice said "Proceed with all due speed, Miss Smith Rhodes. What was it now, ah yes, Rupert."

"Roger, sir!" said Drumknott.

"Indeed, Drumknott. Roger it is." said Vetinari.

"Whatever you've got to do, do it _fast_!" urged a Vimes voice.

Johanna nodded to her students, and walked round checking the placement of the bombs, altering the position of one, and telling the students

" The longest fuse length. Remember. Twenty minutes."

Her students produced the chemical fuses, which resembled corrugated metal tubes with a series of kinks in. Each of four bulges represented a five-minute interval. Break the one nearest the bomb, and it blew in five minutes; choose the fourth and the chemical trigger had to remorselessly burn through four stages before hitting the explosive. Johanna checked and nodded, pliers were used to break the fuse open, and they were inserted into the bombs.

Now it was a race against time.

Fighting the oppressive feeling that they were being watched, and realising that for some reason it was getting hotter in there, Angua called forward the Watch dwarves with the flamethrowers. She then motioned everyone else back towards the exit. Ensuring the Dwarfs were covered against attack, sle reported back to Control.

"Fuses set, sir. Estimate seventeen minutes left before demolition. Brakenspear and Littlehampton are in position to destroy the eggs. Roger. "

"Proceed, Sergeant. Roger."

"Order given, sir."

Rincewind and the rest recalled only the blast of fire and the sudden choking sensation as available oxygen was diverted into feeding the furnace. Within seconds, a compensating wind was howling into the cavern from outside to replace the spent air.

"All eggs scrambled, Sergeant!" Littlehampton reported.

Angua was just about to vocalise "Let's go!" when she heard the muffled scream and saw Rincewind, taking advantage of their inattention, racing for the exit.

Then they all heard the enraged scream, which seemed to go on for a very long time, scrambling their thoughts. It was coming from all around them…

"Let's go! Out!" she mouthed, unheard over the noise, but she made emphatic "out of here!" gestures with her free hand.

And then the pipe above exploded. The things were surgical-appliance pink, appeared to consist of tentacles surrounding a screaming mouth, and leapt at speed at the party, trying to cut them off from their exit. Assassin crossbow bolts plastered several into the walls. Desperately flying swords threw them aside, but it was like trying to hit fog: the things skittered back into the attack. Johanna found her whip was useful – she was used to hitting moving targets, and a Boor whip applied with extreme prejudice had the strength and slashing power to rip several into smaller pieces, which dropped and did not move again. She found short, controlled, slashes were best for chopping them up in mid-air.

Four or five of them latched onto Watch constable Littlehampton, who screamed and tried to brush them off against the walls. They appeared to have a particular hatred for him, the Dwarf who had just toasted their eggs. Even though Johanna and others frantically tried to fight them off, more and more landed on the luckless watchman. Brakenspear was prudently running for the door.

"Busy little creatures, huh?" said Clarke, as he swung his sword.

Cheery was standing in front of Precious, picking off the ones that attacked low, while precious swiped the high-fliers out of the air. Johanna approved of the technique, then went back to her own fight.

"Ponder? " Johanna shouted, as she fought. "No offence, but you are a useless mouth now! Get out! Get out _now_!"

Shaken, the wizard made his way towards the tunnel mouth. He was swinging the omniscope in a slow regular arc, so that the people at Control could see what they were fighting. A disembodied voce was shouting "Get out! Now! Get out, now!" down the omniscope link. One of the pink tentacled things leapt for him, mouth open to show vicious teeth, joining in the scream of Hive-rage.

Without conscious thought, Ponder pointed a finger and threw a spell down its throat. It exploded in a mess of pink goo. A distant voice bellowed _Well done, that wizard!_

Arthur Clarke and a student Assassin were desperately trying to chop the things off Littlehampton. Ponder relayed a screamed order from the omniscope -

"_Stop them! The tank of flame-chemical is on his back! Chop into that and it will explode! If air gets to it, it explodes!"_

"_Put your swords down!" _screamed Ponder.

"Then what are we supposed to use – bad language?" shouted the student.

They reluctantly stopped chopping, grabbed an arm each, and pulled the feebly writhing Dwarf with them, the nozzle of the flamethrower dragging uselessly.

A student tried to attract Johanna's attention, to draw her down from a fighting frenzy.

"_The bombs, miss! Eight minutes!"_

Johanna nodded, and began the retreat to the exit.

And then the dead tubes that had once been the Queen leapt into life. Igor had been fighting with a surgical scalpel in each hand, using them with deadly efficiency. He had taken time to imprison one of the things in a large sample jar from his kit.

But he was right underneath the wreckage of the Queen when she lurched into waking efficiency and trapped him in her coils. Lifting him off the ground, a new tentacled sucker descended. It had a star-fish shaped bulge on its end. To the horror of those watching, it clamped over Igor's mouth. His eyes bulged, and he stiffened. Johanna and several others tried ineffectually to chop him free.

"Five minutes, miss!" screamed a student Assassin. "There's going to be a smoke-cloud the size of Quirm over this site if we don't _hurry_!"

Johanna nodded, and continued chopping. Angua screamed, ripped one of the things off her arm, noting it left a circular sucker-mark, and threw it down, stamping on it. She felt nameless gunk squelch sickeningly between her toes. _They don't seem to care I'm a werewolf, _she thought_. They're about the only animal that doesn't! _

She carried on waving people upstairs, Assassins, Watch and…

"Mr Stibbons, get out!" she shouted. "There's nothing more you can do here!"

Ponder nodded. He had just relayed the pictures of the Watch Igor struggling with the Queen.

"Ponder, _go_!" Johanna yelled. "I'll follow!"

Reluctantly, he made his way out.

Johanna and Arthur Clarke kept hacking at the Queen, severing tubes and watching as her sudden pink colour faded back to grey. Then she died and Igor collapsed to the floor. He still had the starfish-thing stuck to his mouth, but appeared alive.

"Less than a minute? " Johanna said, taking an arm and beginning to run.

"Feels that way" agreed Clarke.

"Then we run."

She grabbed Igor's kit-bag with the other, and they ran, exploding out into the late evening sunshine.

Angua had gathered everyone together about a hundred yards away. But the ground began to undulate and rock even as they ran, There was the first of a series of distant muffled booms, and Johanna and Clarke threw themselves flat.

Ponder Stibbons made an omniscope record of the end of the Hive. It recorded the last three people leaving, two Assassins half-dragging a third black-clad body. The ground behind them heaved and surged upwards in a cloud of earth and dust. A blast of fire and flame surged upwards through what had once been the entrance. Then it settled again, leaving a crater. There was the distant tinkling of windows breaking. After a brief interval, Johanna and Arthur Clarke stood up unsteadily and dusted themselves down. Then they remembered, and picked up the body of Igor.

"Littlehampton's dead." Angua said. "We killed all the creatures that were clinging to him."

She indicated a patch of scorched earth.

"We made sure of them with the flamethrower. What's happened to Igor? Yuk, what's that _thing_ on his face?"

"He seems to be breathing alright" said Clarke. "But we need to get him to hospital. Get that thing removed."

"It's stuck fest" Johanna reported.

"Ponder ran the omniscope over Igor's face. A voice spoke.

"Get him to the University, laddie. And _fast._ We'll get Mossy Lawn over, but something tells me this needs _isolation_".

Ridcully.

"Is Commander Vimes there?" Angua asked. She felt suddenly tired and needed to make a report in. And a Watchman had died under her command. That made it _worse_. And Igor was wounded. Johanna patted her on the shoulder, sympathetically. Angua looked up to her.

"And the worst thing of all, Johanna, is that I stamped on one of them. In _sandals._ I'll never be able to clean it from between my toes!"

"Well, there's enother good reason to wear boots, then!"

Another thought occurred to Johanna. "They might hev hed ecid blood, or something. That's one thing!"

Angua grinned.

"We've made this site safe for property developers. It must have a substantial dollar value attached to it!"

Captain Carrot came to the omniscope. Angua reported the evening's events, and the dead and wounded. Carrot looked sympathetic.

"You did well." he said. Look, the Patrician and Mr Vimes had to rush off to the Palace. I don't understand it completely myself, as yet, but there's been a major incident in the City."

"Apart from _ours_, you mean?"Angua asked. "And I _am_ safe and well, Carrot, thank you for asking."

"There are Watch wagons coming out to pick you all up." Carrot continued. "Sit tight. We need all bodies out on the streets and searching, tonight. Apparently – is Professor Stibbons there? - there's been a major breakthrough from Roundworld. People. Armed and dangerous people. With _gonnes."_

* * *

**(1) **Rincewind had once explained his point of view on religion to two initially enthusiastic Omnian missionaries. One had got drunk for a week and declared a new attachment to atheism. The second had run away and joined the Klatchian Foreign Legion to forget.

Quotes are from **_Alien 2_**. The role of Ripley was shared by Angua and Johanna, with other roles played by members of the cast.


	12. Welcome to AnkhMorpork, City of a 1,000

_**Slipping Between Worlds 12**_

_**Monkey Street, the Shades, Ankh-Morpork.**_

Mrs Tachyon smiled, as if dimly realising.

"It's like Paradise Street again, Guilty!" she said. "The young men were trying to protect us from an explosion. I wonder where the rest of them went?" She sniffed the air.

"We're in the place where they serve rat and chips!" she said. I wonder if that nice Mr Gimlet is still open? "

She looked down at Holtack, who was out cold and slumped into the dustbins.

"We can't leave him like this." She said, and rummaged among her bags. She found what she was looking for and tucked it into the front of his uniform jacket.

"There now! He'll know where he is when he wakes up. Now let's find some chips, Guilty!"

* * *

Not all Assassins were watching the sword-fight in the Guild arena that evening.

Edificeering instructor Alice Band and her teaching assistant Jocasta Wiggs were out and about, taking a group of senior students on an exacting run over the rooftops, in preparation for their Final Run at the end of their Upper Sixth year. They had all been halted in the Shades, and had melted into cover, waiting and observing, as their tutors took in the tableau unfolding before them at ground level.

It had been Jocasta who had alerted Alice to something out of the ordinary happening below. They had heard a strange noise. Strange noises are not uncommon in the Shades, and usually take the form of meaty thuds or organic impacts followed by grunts or brief painful exclamations. This had been different: a whoosh noise and a sudden wind, cut off as soon as it began, followed by the squeaky noise of an un-oiled wheel.

Jocasta had said, puzzled

"I could have _sworn_ they just appeared down there! In the alley!"

"Who?" said Alice, moving to the roof-edge to get a better view.

"The old lady. The one pushing the trolley."

They watched the old lady in black, pushing a wonky sort of trolley with a squeaky wheel, in the direction of Negotiable Affection and Treacle Mine Road. She was moving with speed and purpose.

"And there's a body down there in the alley, back near the bins, Looks unconscious. That wasn't there before, either."

Alice nodded, taking in the scene.

"And there are at least two Thieves down there who've realised. They're letting the old lady go, but they've noticed the body."

"Those Thieves must be experienced. They must understand turning over apparently defenceless old ladies in this city can often be harmful to their health." remarked Jocasta.

"But this is _not_ a good place to be unconscious in." Alice said, drily. After a moment she added "Those clothes are strange, aren't they?"

"And what's that… looks like a very odd walking stick. Or a cane."

The ghost of an old memory stirred in Alice. She felt a sudden warning chill.

"Something strange – well, stranger than normal – is going on here. Keep your eyes open, everyone, and watch!"

"He's waking up" said Jocasta. "Do we help?"

Alice gave her junior an amused look.

"Let's see what happens…"

* * *

Holtack felt as if he'd travelled a long, long, distance. He knew about jet-lag. He felt as if a transatlantic airliner's worth had been dumped upon him all at once. At the same time he felt strangely dreamy, detached, as if what was going on around him didn't concern him and he could just step back from himself and watch it unfold.**(1)**

He remembered having been on Rossville Street. He remembered an offensively cheerful and optimistic bomb disposal officer. He remembered the old lady who'd appeared from nowhere, trying to cross the road right on top of the suspected car-bomb….

Bit by bit, memory came back to him. He stirred and groaned. Where the Hell was he? Surely if he was still alive after being shot at and after that damn bomb exploded, then by all accounts and if there was justice in the world he'd be in a nice clean soft warm bed at the Altnagelvin, being bed-bathed by pretty Irish nurses…. This did not feel like a nice soft warm clean hospital bed. Not by any means.

Holtack performed the obligatory count of arms and limbs. Everything felt like it was still there and functioning. Good. But these were rough cobblestones underneath his back? And a layer of mud, or at least he hoped it was mud…. Where were there open cobblestones in Stroke? Not on the west bank, that he could recall…

A paranoid, ingrained, thought grabbed him.

_Where was his rifle? _

Men had been court-martialled for losing weapons in Ireland. What would they do to an officer? And he was in hostile territory, possibly without a weapon…**(1a)**

He sat up, wishing he could make his head stop whirling, and groped for his rifle.

_Ah. Back in business. _

And then he saw something that could never in a million years be mistaken even for a homely Irish nurse approaching the bedside. Well-trained instincts kicked in.

Un-licenced thief Mathew Fagin jumped in fright as the figure sat up. From the neck down it was human. But what it wore on its head… he saw a smooth round alien –looking skull with no features save for a huge glassy eye in the lower part of its face. Light reflected off it showing nothing beneath. Matthew screamed and went for his long killing knife, the knife that had resolved other problematical thefts.

* * *

Above, Alice Band whispered to her class:

"We may _only_ intervene if that thief deliberately kills his mark. Then we as Assassins have the right to enforce the Flannelfoot-Withel Accord. Which _is_, Miss Chorley?"

"_You rob 'em. We inhume them_. Miss. The first protocol between our Guilds."

* * *

Fagin screamed and leapt back. Jerked into wakefulness by how close somebody had got to him with a bloody _cutlass _like that, Holtack jerked the rifle round to cover him. Absurdly, he found himself reciting the abbreviated Yellow Card warning.

"Halt! Hands up!"

But Fagin carried on advancing.

" I am ready to fire! Drop that weapon!"

Holtack wondered if he was in a place where they understood English. He covered the knifeman with the rifle-muzzle as he approached, knife raised. Absurdly, his heightened senses took in the man's clothing.

_Positively Dickensian. That isn't 1980's Bogside street-rat. Am I on the set of some costume drama? But that bloody carving knife is real enough!_

He also sensed movement to his left and right.

_Better wrap this up quickly…_

"One last chance. Drop it or I respond with lethal force."

Fagin leapt forward.

Holtack braced and fired from the hip. The muzzle-flash lit the alley, revealing a scene that could only have been called urban neglect if no stronger terms could be found. The sound of the shot boomed loud and echoed in the narrow street. Somewhere a girl shrieked, hastily cut off. Holtack took advantage of the moment to swiftly get to his feet, ignoring the mud trickling down the back of his neck and the cold clammy feeling down his back, and change position. He had closed one eye to shoot. He hoped the unexpected muzzle flash had temporarily killed the night-vision of anyone else trying to close in on him. He at least still had night-vision in one eye. He used the advantage.

_"What happened? What the Offler happened?"_

_"He must of been some flaming Wizard, Mundo! Let's get out of here!"_

_"Where is he?"_

Good, No discipline. They were talking.

Holtack glimpsed a shadowy figure blundering about the alley. He reversed his rifle and brought it up like a quarterstaff. There was a satisfying impact, a noise of "_Gnnn!_" and he saw a figure slump to the uninviting cobblestones. As he wasn't feeling especially charitable, ands he sensed that had the circumstances been reversed he could expect no less, he kicked it neatly in the side of the head as it fell. It did not move again.

He took a moment to lift the Perspex visor on the front of his helmet. Then spun to his right as the figure with the knife leapt at him. Instinct made him raise his rifle as he dodged out of the way.

"You have one chance! Drop that weapon and surrender!"

"Oh yeah? Watch, are you?"

Watch?" said Holtack, puzzled.

"_Coppers. Plods._ _Peelers_." the sneering knifeman qualified. "New to this city, are you?"

Holtack looked into a scarred face and missing or rotten teeth.

"Now you come to mention it, yes and yes", he said. He covered the man with his rifle, reluctant to kill again unless there were no alternative.

"Now drop it, or I kill you." Holtack said, simply. The man had a knife with a ten-inch blade. That made him dangerous.

"Oh, yeah, copper? _What with_?"

The thug lunged forward. Holtack sighed, braced himself, and fired again. There was another muzzle-flash and thunderous roar, The second thug , hit at close range by a high-velocity bullet at very close range, swayed and fell, a look of pain and surprise on his face.

Philip Holtack quickly assured himself there were no more unpleasant surprises in the alleyway, although he had a prickling feeling that he was being watched. He felt no triumph or sense of victory in what he'd done. He'd shot and killed two men at close range, in a life or death situation, with a far superior weapon to anything they possessed, that was all. He thanked the military training and experience that meant he had been able to act in the first place, and not freeze up. But that was all there was to it. Now. They'd spoken about some sort of police force. Wherever he was, it was a fair bet to assume he wasn't in Northern Ireland any more. Whatever tornado had taken him, OZ-like, from his insalubrious "Kansas" , it was a fair bet to say he wasn't anywhere where his commission and authority was valid. He felt he didn't have much time. He needed information about this place. He needed somewhere to hide up. He needed the local money. It might buy clothing that meant he didn't stand out. He suspected twentieth century British Army battledress wasn't a common sight around these parts.

Holtack steeled himself. He had a rifle, nineteen rounds in the mag, three spare mags. Seventy-nine shots. Best to assume when they were gone, they were gone. No local money.

Better do some corpse-robbery, then.

He went to the first body and tried not to shudder at the mess he'd made. Then he got to work.

* * *

Alice Band, aghast, did some quick thinking. None of her students was going to be so unguarded as to say _Did you see that, miss? _or anything as fatuous. But it was on all their faces.

"The exercise is cancelled!" she whispered. "We will all return to the Guild. We will make reports on what we saw here tonight. The Dark Council must know. "

"Alice?" Jocasta whispered. "That was a…_gonne_, wasn't it?"

"Yes. I'm afraid it was."

"Miss? We could overpower him. There are fourteen of us. That man just carried out two unlicensed inhumations right under our noses!"

Alice paused. It was true to say that she would not have bet on his turning the tables as quickly and as completely as that on three unlicenced thieves. The stranger had performed with a degree of ruthlessness that she had nodded appreciatively at, from a professional standpoint. Whoever he was, he'd obviously had some _training._ But where and who from? That was a third reason for the Guild to be interested in him. But carrying and using a _gonne_ was a capital offence. The killings might be excused as self-defence, especially against unlicenced thieves. Whoever he was, he'd certainly made himself a possible candidate for a Mature Student Scholarship, always provided he wasn't already trained, and Vetinari didn't insist he was hanged over the _gonne _issue. And that looked like a camoflage pattern on his clothing. The Guild was coming round to the usefulness of camouflage for certain applications of the Art, and was experimenting. But it knew the _principle _had been around for a long time.

_But who had trained him? And where?_

"No" she said. "Good idea, mr Henley-Cranford, but you all saw what that weapon was capable of. I will not take that risk with students. I will now take you back to the Guild with all speed. Miss Wiggs?"

"Yes, Miss Band?"

"As Senior Assassin here, I am instructing you, as the only other licenced Assassin with this group, to follow this man and see where he goes. Standard surveillance. Do not let yourself be seen and do not make contact. Just follow and watch. And Jocasta?"

"Yes, Alice?"

She felt her former teacher and friend's gloved fingertips stroke her cheek.

"Be careful!"

Jocasta smiled. That caress meant a lot.

And Alice led her students silently away, not knowing at this point that had she gone down to the alley and exposed her face , Philip Holtack would have given himself up out of shock, surprise, astonishment, and sheer ingrained habit of obedience to Authority. Jocasta settled herself down to discreetly watch, her Assassin senses kicking in at the thought of the man below being a ruthless killer with a deadly weapon.

* * *

Gimlet, like many other providers of food and refreshment throughout the Multiverse, was a thoughtful Dwarf who in this Discworld knew far better than to offend old ladies dressed in black. A blessing on his diner was infinitely better than the alternative.

"Rat and chips, Mrs T?" he asked. "Coming right up!"

Mrs Tachyon stood perhaps four foot ten tall. This meant she did not stand out too much among Dwarfs. She was even developing the wispy sort of beard some old ladies get. And in a place where adherence to a personal hygiene regime was at most occasional** (2)**, the odour of neglect went un-noticed. She felt at home here. She settled down to her meal, happily.

* * *

Holtack gave up the idea of stripping the corpses for clothing. Partly because deep-down, he shuddered at the idea; and partly because in life, the two men he'd killed had only had occasional contact with soap and only the haziest idea of the word "laundry". Besides, the rather large holes blasted in both had somewhat soiled their apparel beyond any reasonable hope of redemption.

_Ah well. _

Holtack had learnt that men in this place tended to carry their cash in leather pouches slung from the belt. These guys must have been thieves: they'd each carried more than one, and it was a tidy haul in terms of coin and banknotes.

_But what were they worth? The highest denomination was a twenty-dollar bill. But what could that buy?He knew nothing. And what was this "Ankh-Morpork" place? Who was the hawk-nosed austere looking bloke on the notes? He looked a bit like that Italian philosopher. Mac-something. Machiaevelli. _

There had also been a variety of knives of various weights and lengths, but no guns. He frowned. Something was _wrong_ here. Very wrong. The architecture around him, now he had time and leisure to study it, suggested something of old English and Welsh cities. The closeness of the houses and their general appearance suggested the old town of Conway, inside the town walls. Holtack's historian father had taken him there and remarked that nothing had been built inside the city walls since perhaps 1780, with a lot dating from as early as the 1400's. Only, Conway was _cleaner_ than that. A lot cleaner. And the men he'd fought had been dressed in a way last seen in England or Wales in the 1800's.

Holtack thought of lighting a cigarette. He had a virgin packet on him, despite regulations. The only thing that stopped him was a growing suspicion these might be the only Rothmans available for a long way in any direction, including that of time.

_What did people smoke around here? _

Then he noticed a smear of blood on his hand, not his, and a different post-combat reflex kicked in.

He stumbled to the end of the alley, ripped his helmet off, and vomited helplessly, taking care to hold his rifle out of the way.**(3)**

_Good,_ thought Jocasta. _Under that rather scary helmet he's human. And human enough to react to what he just did. A lot of Assassins get taken that way afterwards too, although nobody likes to admit it._

Holtack wiped his mouth and picked his helmet up. Unsteadily, he noticed the third robber, the one he'd only thumped, was waking up.

_OK, seize the initiative. _

He hoped he could do this convincingly. He'd been on enough five o'clock knocks**(4)** and seen enough players being lifted. The trick was to scare them and give them no time to think.

He put on his best parade ground voice.

_Did I say get up? Did I say to you to sit up? On the ground! Face down! Hands behind your head! Move it, move it! Legs apart! Further! Further! I want Olga Korbut legs apart!_

Holtack punctuated a stream of shouting and screaming with prods from his rifle and none-too-gentle kicks, just as he'd seen Fusilier Powell doing it on hapless IRA and UDA suspects they'd lifted.

He delivered a final tap with his toe, right up inside the liftee's fork. He heard a fearful gibber.

"And just in case you've got any clever ideas, remember whose boot is up against whose family jewels!" Holtack shouted. "_And_ it's got a steel toecap!"

He then patted the man down for weapons, discovering two or three knives and another purse, which he pocketed.

He paused, waited, and then said in a more reasonable voice

"I'm going to ask you some questions. If I'm happy with the answers I get, I might even let you go. I don't like killing people and I'll use every possible other way, but I think you've realised I will if I have to. And I think I'm alone here and I'm desperate."

He spat a bit of lingering vomit out, deliberately near to his prisoner's head.

"First question, _Where the Hell am I_?"

"Huh?" said the prisoner. Holtack prodded with his foot.

"Y_ou're inna city of Ankh-Morpork which is a port on the Circle Sea and Gods please don't hurt me !"_

Holtack nodded. It fitted with the bank notes, which were safely stashed away in his ammunition pouch. he'd kept only one of the leather pouches, to retain the small coin.

"Ankh-More-pork" he repeated, speaking the unfamiliar syllables slowly. "Is that in Ireland?"

"Dunno, guv, don't know any place called Ireland"

Something that had been nagging at Holtack's mind surfaced.

"But you speak English?"

It was true: the people he'd seen so far spoke a sort of oddly-accented English, which sounded partly archaic Cockney, with overtones of Bristol, the West Country and possibly North American New England. The bits where the English spoken had only a hint of America to it, sounding like the English accents the founding fathers had brought with them. Nantucket Island, maybe, or old moneyed Boston. He'd met American Army officers from Ivy League families, pure-blood Wasps, who by accent alone you would not have thought "American".

"English, guv? Don't know no _English_, either. We speak _Morporkian_, always have done!"

"And is that the dominant language here? The one everyone speaks?"

His prisoner laughed.

"Apart from those bloody immigrants from Klatch and Howondaland, yes! And Ephebians. And Quirmians. And Llamedosians. You sounds a bit Llamedosian, guv?"

"I'm asking the questions!" Holtack said, curtly. There really wasn't much time. Surely people would be here by now to investigate gunfire and screaming? But by sheer good fortune he was in a place where everyone spoke English, whatever they called it locally.

_Llamedosian? The word sounds almost Welsh…_

"Am I on Earth still?"

"If that's another word for the Discworld, yes!"

"What's the Discworld?"

"You don't know _that_? It's a world, right. Which is shaped like a disc, right."

The prisoner was enunciating the words slowly and carefully, as if to a mentally impaired child.

"Some say it floats through space on the backs of four elephants. What stand on the back of a turtle."

"Must be big elephants and an outsized turtle, then!"

"So they say."

_Ok. Make a guess. This man is possibly illiterate. No education. So he's passing on whatever he's been told, whatever the local vicar told him in what passes for a local church about what his planet looks like. After all, __**we**__ used to believe we lived on a flat Earth that God jerry-built in seven days flat…_

"Ok, new question. What does a twenty-dollar bill buy me?"

The man's eyes lit up. Holtack wondered if paying for information might get him further. But no, not till he'd got an idea as to what the currency was worth.

"That's a month's pay to most people, guv!" he was told.

"Three dollars gets you a furnished bedroom for a week. An extra fifty pence gets your laundry done. Tenpence gets you a meal. Although fifteen gets you a _good_ meal. Are you done yet, guv?"

Holtack considered. He wondered about asking the address of a discreet lodging house where he could hide up. But having somebody, let alone somebody like this, know where he was living… not a good idea. He'd now got a handle on local economy. And he was carrying over two hundred dollars. Good. That would last a while.

"Can I go now, guv?" the thief repeated. Holtack considered this.

"Ok. Stand up slowly and carefully. I'm covering you with the gonne, don't forget."

The man stood. But lingered.

"What is it?" Holtack said, crossly.

"You got all my weapons, guv. Out here, going without a weapon is _suicide._ Please?"

_Well, I don't need all those knives…_

"I'm keeping your money. I need that. " Holtack said, throwing the knives he'd gathered together into a heap. "But you're welcome to all this crap. I don't need it."

The look on the thief's face suggested it was a fair exchange.

"Just in case you're still thinking of using any of it on me, remember who's holding the gun!" Holtack added. The thief looked perplexed.

"What's a _gonne_, guv?"

"You don't know _that_? It's a projectile weapon, It puts holes in people. Big ones. And I'm holding one."

"I get the point, guv. Thanks for the weapons." Holtack watched which way the thief went, waited a while, and then went in the opposite one, thinking furiously, watching the street for possible trouble in a way that only Northern Ireland can teach a man.

_Does **nobody **in this place have guns? They don't seem to know what they are! _

It felt like the biggest single proof that he'd dropped onto another planet. He took a moment to look up. He completely missed a black-clad Jocasta Wiggs, who was discreetly following him at rooftop height. But he did notice…

_No TV aerials or satellite dishes on the chimneystacks…_

And behind the rooftops...

_The stars are all wrong! There's nothing up there that I recognise!_

He suddenly felt all alone again, away from the reassuring background clamour of the Regiment and Seven Platoon.

He wondered if any of the other men nearby to the old woman when It happened had _crossed._

And if so, where they were…

* * *

**(1)** He was about to realise this is an extremely unwise state of mind to be in while in Ankh-Morpork. And doubly so in the Shades.

**(1a) **you will note Holtack was more worried about what his own side would do to him for losing a weapon, as opposed to what the IRA might do if it found him, defenceless, in their area. This is again due to long training and conditioning.

**(2) **Think about it. _**In Soul Music**_, the Dwarf Glod Glodsson sweats so profusely he thinks there may be no alternative other than to change his vest. No mention of "bathing" there. Glod may be extreme – and it hasn't escaped my notice that he is a musician, and his name evokes the hidden "Glod" in the name "Bob Geldof" (legendary soap-shy rock performer) – but this indicates something about Dwarfs…

**(3) **Because deeply-ingrained habits cannot be set aside even when heaving.

**(4) F**ive a.m, is a good time to make house-calls and perform searches. People are generally too groggy to resist arrest (being "_lifted_") or to try to hide anything.


	13. Culture Shock

_**Slipping Between Worlds 13**_

_**The Hive site, Ankh-Morpork.**_

As the crater which marked the end of the Hive smouldered, and acrid-smelling smoke swirled upwards, the survivors of the mission to destroy its last remnants sat, slumped and dazed, on the sparse grass and urban weed. Johanna leant back against Brakenspear's discarded knockerman rig and without a Dwarf to fill it, the layers of leather and fire-retardant silk still held their shape and made a rigid cone, enough for a mission-weary Assassin to rest her back against. Like Cheery and Angua, he was policing local inhabitants, alarmed by the loud explosions and the cloud of smoke, who had spilled out of their homes demanding to know what was going on. It didn't help that the blast had shattered a few windows.

Next to her, Ponder Stibbons was in urgent conference with the University via the Omniscope. Johanna listened with half an ear. After being virtually the last person out, seconds before the cataclysmic explosion, she was drained of strength and energy and just wanted to sit there looking at the sky. It was at moments like this that she wished she'd acquired the smoking habit.

She watched reaction take over Arthur Clarke, as he trembled and threw up, realising how near he'd come to death.

"Don't try to fight it, Erthur" she said, kindly. "Just let it happen." A thought occurred to her.

"Wes thet your first time? In combet? Your first formel essignement?"

He nodded, weakly. Johanna smiled, in sympathy. Some people trained as Assassins, did the final Run, qualified, and then went on to do other things, never ever inhuming or taking formal contracts. Arthur Clarke had found his niche in the Guild's Research and Development sector, where his mind was valued and his talents excused him front-line work. His keen scientific mind was the reason why he'd been selected for this mission. He was, by temperament, a thinker and a maker, not a fighter.

And a fighter had died that day. One of the two Dwarf Watchmen who had handled the flame-projector units had been overwhelmed and suffocated by the defensive Things the Hive had created and thrown into battle. The Watch had taken a second casualty: its resident Igor had also fallen, driven into a strange paralysis by a different sort of Thing that remained glued to his face. He was under guard a little way away, the body of Littlehampton lying decently covered nearby. They were waiting for Watch back-up and an ambulance to evacuate the dead and wounded.

_+++ I have counted six separate incursions into the Discworld.+++ All have occurred within the region of Ankh-Morpork.+++ There are seven definite human intelligences and two non-human.+++ One of those resonates to the Hive+++ Point of origin: the European region of Roundworld+++ Exact point of origin: the tertiary landmass called Ireland._

"Where exactly are they in this city, HEX?" Ponder said, speaking into the omniscope.

_+++Computing.+++ Where they landed may not be precisely where they are now.+++Time has elapsed. +++I can tell you where they entered the Disc, but their movements afterwards are unclear+++_

There was an ominous pause.

"Well?" Ponder prompted.

_+++I am receiving reports that a gonne has been fired in the City. Patrician Vetinari and Commander Vimes have conferred and all available Watch units are investigating. +++Deaths are reported to have happened.+++ Lord Downey has been called to the Palace as a matter of some urgency._

Johanna jerked awake. Her three student Assassins suddenly became more alert.

"Gonnes?"

Like any Assassin, she was aware of what had happened the last time a gonne had come to the City. In fact, she'd been there, one of hundreds of black-clad Assassins lining the stairs and crowding the Quad, as a threat in being, as Vimes and Carrot walked out of the Master's study that fateful day**(1)**.

"Ponder, this is _serious_!"

* * *

"What happened?" asked the unlicenced Thief Matthew Fagin. He looked down at his late body and wished he hadn't.

"Ugggh…"

YOU DO NOT NEED TO LOOK. Death said, kindly.

"Who _was_ he?" Holtack was busily interrogating the survivor, oblivious to the psychic ether nearby.

NOW THERE'S A QUESTION. HE IS NOT OF THIS DISC. YOU WERE ONLY THE FIFTH PERSON TO DIE THAT WAY ON THE DISC, INCIDENTALLY. IT'S VERY RARE.

"Really?"

BUT IN ONE POSSIBLE FUTURE I FORESEE A LOT MORE. VERY MANY MORE. DEATH BY GONNE MIGHT BECOME A COMMONPLACE. IT ALL DEPENDS ON THE VISITORS TO OUR WORLD.

"Visitors?"

FROM ANOTHER WORLD. Death repeated, as if talking to himself. I'M NOT SURE IF I HAVE JURISDICTION OVER THEM. I SHALL NEED TO CONSULT.

Then he remembered himself and gathered up the spirit of Mathew Fagin. He went back to the Duty.

MUNDO FREGGMORTON, FORMER THIEF?

* * *

Fusilier Paul Hughes sat bolt upright, wishing his head would stop spinning and the headache would go away. He felt severely disorientated. One minute he'd been on Rossville Street under a grey Irish evening sky. Out in the open, right? Desperately supporting the platoon as they tied to save Mr Holtack's bacon from sizzling on several fires. Well, you had to, didn't you? He was not a bad officer, and the next one could have been a lot worse, some dribbling Rupert straight out of Sandhurst who knew nothing, or worse, some callow Lieutenant with his second pip still new who thought he knew it all after six months' service. Trying to pin down that sniper by giving him too many targets to pick from and less chance that any one of us would go next. While Pik Botha was putting up some bloody accurate suppressing fire, you had to say that for Boer Botha, he knew his soldiering. Kosher Greenberg was already sounding him out for Special Forces, which said a lot.**(2)**

And then that bomb must have timed us all out… _if so, why am I still alive? And what am I doing lying here, on a cold stone-flagged floor in what looks like some sort of monastic cloister… _

Hughes tried to focus and take in more of his surroundings. There were bookshelves all around him. And a dim light… gaslight? Oil lamps? He sniffed: some sort of oil was burning somewhere. _Not paid their lecky bill, then? Been cut off? _

He stood, unsteadily, using a bookshelf for support. He took in some of the spines. Hughes was no great reader, but some of the books and names were vaguely familiar. Isaac Asimov's _**Foundation**_ trilogy. Douglas Adams, _The Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy_? He grinned at the cover:- _**"Don't Panic."**_ _Bloody apt. _He pulled it off the shelf. If this was a library, and by the look of it this was the science-fiction section, there'd be a little lable in the front telling you whose library it was, right? Which would tell him where he was.

A panicked and paranoid thought.

_I've not been taken prisoner by those mad monks on the hill, have I? They're IRA to a man. If they have I'm dead._

He thought of the local monastery, known as the IRA Chaplaincy Department, and shuddered. They played those weird local sports, didn't they, where if a British soldier so much as passed by, the pitch was desecrated forever…**(3)**

Hughes thought again, and checked his rifle.

_But I've still got a loaded SLR. That can't be right. _

Then he remembered and checked the inside cover of a book. He went "huh?" in perplexity.

_**Unseen University Library. **_

_**Strictly for reference by authorised personnel **__**only.**_

_**The Roundworld Project**_

_**Language: English**_

_**Category: Science fiction. **_

_**Blit no:- **_

Hughes shook, wondering what he'd let himself into. Like many other Toms, he carried an illicit packet of cigarettes. Just sometimes, very occasionally, the patrol leader might consider they were in a place of safety where half the patrol could fall out for a quick smoke whilst the others stood guard. It didn't happen often – out here you needed continual vigilance – but there was no harm in optimism.

With trembling fingers, he got one out and tried to light it. Then he was aware of a terrifying scream. The soldier in him took over, the lit cigarette dropped, and his rifle levelled, as the dark shape swung towards him. There was a deafening crack and a muzzle flash.

Then something hit Hughes with a suspicion of red fur, and he lost consciousness.

* * *

The Watch hurry-up wagons had finally arrived.

"You took your time, didn't you!" Angua growled at Watchman Crossley, one of the drivers. The horses in front whinned and shifted in fear as Angua bounded onto the driver's board. They knew what shape she was, and didn't like it at all.

"Sorry, miss. Big emergency on. Mr Vimes is incommunicado at the Palace with His Lordship and Lord Downey. Captain Carrot's up at the University. He's just been called off to some bother they're having there. You and Sergeant Littlebottom're here, on a secret mission for the good of the city."

A horrible cold clammy hand gripped Angua.

"Who's in charge of the Watch?"

She knew who the next man down nominally was. And the last time he'd been thrust into an executive role there'd been utter disaster…

Crossley grinned. He was a small, dapper, ex-jockey who Vimes had recruited because of his skill with horses.

"It isn't Fred Colon, miss, if that's what you're thinking. There was what you might call a discussion about what you might call seniority and capacity. Sergeant Pessimal made it clear that as Watch Adjutant, it was his duty to stand in if more senior officers were not available. He pointed out Inspector Loudweather from the Particulars was unavailable, as he got called down to Monkey Street to investigate a double killing. Sergeant Detritus is strictly a street officer, and Sergeant Colon was best placed at the Lemonade Factory, kitting out Specials as they answered the call – Mr Pessimal wants a full muster, miss, there's a real panic on! . Between you and me, miss, I think Fred and old Detritus was relieved at not having to take over!"

_A.E., I could kiss you, _Angua thought, relieved.

"A real panic?" Angua probed.

"Yes, miss. Word came out from the Palace. Rumour is, the Assassins are out in force as well, Downey's been tole. Every able body out on the streets, searching. But we ain't been tole what to look for!"

"Business as usual, then." sighed Angua. It was going to be a long night. Then she connected. Ponder Stibbons was glued to the omniscope. She'd heard an ominous word, repeated frequently.

_Gonnes. _Plural.

* * *

Holtack had moved, carefully, onto marginally better-lit streets. He noticed the street lighting was crude and mediaeval, consisting of pitch-soaked wooden torches slotted into wall sconces. As many of the metal brackets were empty as there were filled, and the street consisted of a narrow space between two rows of Tudor-looking houses , paved largely with _stuff _thrown negligently from doorways and windows.

He passed at least one presumed tavern, _The Trolles' Head, _whose pub-sign was a very realistic-looking carving of what looked like the head of the mythical creature in question.

_Victorian clothes, mediaeval streets and houses? _

He'd got through a warren of alleys and smaller streets with only one incident – two more thugs had tried to mug him as he paused underneath a street-light, which illuminated the name _Shamlegger Street. _

Again, a little applied aggression had resolved the situation, and two more attackers had been left groaning or unconscious, again divested of their purses. Holtack had thought about shooting, but the rounds he had were going to be precious, and if guns were rare, even un-known in this place, he wasn't going to draw attention to himself. A fast Powell-like head-butt had dropped one – it helped he was wearing a helmet with a pronounced front brim that the visor locked onto – and he had felt the impact of a knife behind him that had bounced off his flak-jacket, leaving a shallow cut. He had turned, confronted a puzzled looking attacker looking at his knife in bewilderment, and slammed the rifle stock up under his jaw, ending the confrontation. He had heard but not seen a third person, running off into the distance.

_Let the good news travel before me, _he thought, and walked on.

He had looked at the long thin knife with interest. He could use a back-up weapon, maybe somehow adapt it into a makeshift bayonet. Knife and scabbard slipped easily through the empty bayonet-frog at the back of his webbing-belt.**(4)**

Ah, a new street, broader and better lit, although that was saying little. He read the street-sign, with difficulty. Something beginning with "W" had been hastily painted over. A new, larger, sign had been nailed up above it.

There were larger buildings here, with a later, almost Jacobean or Regency, feel to them. One that he could see in the middle distance was ornate and extremely well lit.

"_Negotiable Affection?" _Ah well…

* * *

Above, Jocasta Wiggs kept station.

_Two more? And without firing the gonne? Somebody has trained this man in Assassin skills. And he isn't killing for the pleasure of it, or he'd have left them both dead… but he's going into the Whore Pits, Why am I getting a bad feeling about this?_

Jocasta moved quickly and easily between rooftops, at all times keeping the man on the ground in full sight.

* * *

"_You there! Stop! In the name of the City Watch!"_

"Oh dear, Guilty." said Mrs Tachyon. "I think those policemen want to talk to us. They don't seem friendly!"

She took to her heels and pushed a strangely reluctant basket round into a convenient dark alleyway. There was an air of mourning and grief about it, but that was silly, the basket couldn't think, could it? Or maybe it could _feel_… she heard running feet getting nearer.

"Time to go!" she said. It was like those soldiers, with _guns_, chasing her in Northern Ireland…

Constables Shoe and Visit came pelting round to the alley mouth. Reg Shoe had done a double-take at seeing one of those wretched _things_ in the street., when he thought they were all gone. At least there was only one of them…

"She's gone!" he said, in surprise. Visit's long face looked mournful.

"Truly Om hath translated her even unto another place…"

Reg gave him a hard look.

"We're going to have to report this. I can see Mr Vimes going _bursar_…"

* * *

"Bur-SAAAAR!" bellowed Ridcully. He was sighting the SLR that had been retrieved from Hughes, who had been laid out on a bed in the University infirmary. A Bledlow with a stout cudgel stood at either side of the bed. The Librarian looked on, anxiously. He'd _seen _what one of those could do, and he was still trembling at the near-miss.

"Any sign of the Watch?" he asked, sighting the weapon on the Bursar, who tried to edge away from the muzzle. Ridcully tracked him easily.

"Captain Carrot has been informed, sir. He will be here directly."

"Interestin' sightin' system on this weapon!" Ridcully said, conversationally. You line up this sight _here_ with the blade on the very end of the pipe _there_ and in theory the projectile goes just where you want it to. "

"Ooook!" said the Librarian, nervously, covering his ears and making himself small.

"Indeed so, sir" the Bursar said, prudently putting Recent Runes in between him and the gonne. It would not have done the Bursar any good _at all_ to be informed that a high-velocity round would have gone through both of them with power to spare.

Runes was reflectively smoking a cigarette retrieved from the scene. He was flicking the strange device that made flame.

"I have to say, these… _Rothmans_… are a really smooth smoke, Arch-Chancellor!" said Runes. "And such a simple device! The wheel is rough, so that when it turns it strikes a flint. The, ah, _flintlock device_ when activated by the thumb also releases gas from the canister, no doubt liquefied under pressure. Result, a controlled flame. I wonder if the Artificers can build these?"

Ridcully grunted.

"Be quiet, you fellows. I'm almost sure this thing is tryin' to speak to me. It's far and it's faint…"

A bledlow prudently ducked aside. Ridcully's finger tightened on the trigger and there was a sudden deafening explosion. As the unexpected recoil threw Ridcully on his back, the round missed the Bursar by maybe a foot, shooting out the infirmary window, which exploded in a shower of stained glass and lead bracing.

There was a stunned silence. Ridcully got to his feet and went to the window. A statue of Arch-Chancellor Bewdsley outside was suddenly missing half its head.

"Oh dear… Mr Polly needs a weeble…"

"Fish 'em out, Runes. Front left pocket of his gown. Thank you."

Ridcully dusted himself down.

Captain Carrot bustled in, followed by a newly arrived Ponder Stibbons. The man on the bed, in his motley of muted colours, was sitting up, eyes wide open in shock.

"Sir… Mr Ridcully… Mustrum… could you please, er, pass that over? Gently, carefully… thank you!" Carrot said. He'd seen gonnes before. He knew what they did.

The man on the bed looked at the two large burly men with clubs. He looked over to Carrot.

"Sir… excuse me? Sir?"

Hughes, although he was looking at a man dressed in leather and armour, vaguely like… _well, the man had cropped hair, like one of them Roundheads in ancient pictures, wearing a sword, too -_ instinctively knew Officer when he saw one. The three pips at each shoulder confirmed it.

_A Captain. A Rupert with experience. A Lieutenant just out of nappies and allowed to play with the bigger kids. _

Carrot turned and looked at him. Another set of deep-down genes enabled him to recognise _For all the strange clothes, that's a uniform. And the man's appearance and demeanour says "private soldier". But not a raw recruit._

"Yes, Private?" he said, pleasantly.

"Just. feel along the left-hand side of the weapon, sir. Just in front of the trigger on the left of the stock you'll find a small lever. Do us all a favour, sir, and push it all the way forwards? That deactivates the weapon and locks it so it can't be fired".

"Ah, the safety catch!" Carrot said, genially.

"We call it the change lever, sir." said Hughes. "And, not being picky or anything, I'm a fusilier, not a private soldier. Same rank, though. Just a different name."

Hughes paused, aware that one of the strange men in the gaudy robes, as if Gandalf had taken an illicit drug that made Middle Earth a lot more colourful, was running a buzzing square box over him.

"Normal thaumic readings, sir." Stibbons reported. "Fully human."

"Well, what did you expect me to be?" Hughes asked, perplexed.

"On _this_ world, laddie, that's a _very_ open question!" the Head Gandalf said to him.

Carrot cleared his throat.

"I'm not aware of any offences you've committed – except one. As a Watchman – that is, as a police officer – I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you into custody and impound this—weapon – and any associated equipment you might be carrying. At the moment I'll call it _protective_ custody, and I'll see to it you're fairly and well treated. If what Professor Stibbons tells me is correct, you're from another world and you have no idea of who we are, or how to survive on our streets. Which are not _kind_ streets. So this is as much protection for you as it is for us".

"Suits me, sir!" said Hughes. "I really thought I was dead back there, so waking up and discovering I'm still alive is a bonus. Besides, I've always wondered what it was like to surrender to somebody!"

"I think I know exactly where you came from. " Ponder Stibbons said. "I promise you we'll do everything we can to get you back home again. But it looks as if you – and the others – are going to be here for a while yet!"

"Others?"

"We believe more than one of you crossed over. HEX is working on the hypothesis that two explosions happened simultaneously, one in our world and one on yours, that opened up a window and drew you across. They were linked by some random factor we're still trying to identify."

"That fits" said Hughes. "There was a bloody big bomb, that much I remember."

"Will you be fit to move? I'll call a coach and get you over to the Yard."

"What's this one offence I'm supposed to have committed?" Hughes asked, swinging his legs off the bed and sitting up.

Carrot looked grave.

"You brought a _gonne_ into our City – into our world." he said. "I know you didn't mean to, but the Patrician – the City ruler – really doesn't like that. He'll want to see you at some point, too."

"What's the penalty?"

Carrot frowned. So far he was reeling this broad, muscular, fit young man in gently. He was a trained soldier, army un-known, who no doubt had formal and informal fighting skills. The fact he was coming quietly was a huge relief. Carrot was sure he could handle it if he showed resistance, say at a casual mention that he faced the death penalty, but he'd far rather have a co-operative suspect.

"One thing at a time, please. You're probably hungry? Thirsty? By all accounts you had a long trip."

Hughes sighed, and gave himself up to captivity. At least they seemed friendly and weren't trying to kill him… he looked across to Recent Runes, then patted his pocket and realised what was missing.

"And I'll have me tabs back, thanks, Gandalf. _And_ the lighter!"

He marched to the coach, the two burly men with clubs flanking him on either side. They were affable enough, but he sensed any attempt to run would be futile. Besides, he strongly suspected there'd be nowhere to run to, and at least the serious-looking boffin type with the specs had promised they'd try to send him back. And he'd as good as been promised a square meal and a place to get his head down…

He looked up at the buildings around him. It looked like old-town Chester, with a hint of Cambridge University thrown in – the posh school for posh people. _But no TV aerials, anywhere? No electric light? And no guns? _

Ah well. Could be worse.

* * *

Alice Band marched her class of senior students to a classroom and got some lamps on. She provided pens, ink, and paper, and told them to treat it like an essay under exam conditions. She instructed them to write down _exactly_ what they'd seen, with no embellishment and no omissions, and that nobody was to breathe a word of this afterwards unless otherwise told.

She then sat at the teacher's desk in front, and gathered her own thoughts. She hoped Jocasta was alright. A man with a gonne who had killed twice was not a safe assignment even for an Assassin as capable as Jocasta.

_Should I have gone myself_? she wondered, fighting down an irrational suspicion that this might well have been the best thing to do. _No. Somebody had to be responsible for the students. Even though we can selectively use them to assist in assignations, it is an unwritten law that a teacher does not subject her students to risk of death. You only have the right to ask that of a fellow qualified Assassin. And you knew there was something special about Jocasta when you first saw her, aged eleven. _

Alice cleared her mind, and began writing her own report.

* * *

Detective-Inspector André Loudweather of the Cable Street Particulars bent over the first of the bodies on Monkey Street. By the feel of them, not much more than an hour had elapsed since decease.

_What brute of a weapon had ripped such enormous holes in the bodies? _he asked himself. _If this is what a gonne is capable of, no wonder Vetinari has made them illegal in the city. _

He found several empty purses in the mud of the street. Quite a few more than two people would normally carry. The bodies had also been professionally searched. One of the presumed-thieves had a knife down his boot that the searcher had missed, which was odd: usually the boot-top is the first place you'd look for a weapon. And the lock-pick was still in his boot-hell, which was untouched.

"Sir!"

Detective-Sergeant Tugelbend had found something. André hurried over.

"This is odd, sir."

Victor indicated a gleaming brass tube, part concealed in the mud. "Wasn't something like this a clue in the original _gonne_ case?"

André picked it up out of the mud. The tube tapered at one end, where it had been blackened. He remembered something about the original _gonne_ case and sniffed it. There was a smell, partly of firework but which partly put him in mind of an old privy. Maybe that was just the mud, although he dimly remembered alchemists began from some…unsavoury waste substances… when they were refining Black Powder.

There were indistinct letters stamped or engraved on the base of the tube. André could make out "_7.62" _underneath and some indistinct letters above. He placed a marker where the tube had been found, and put it in an evidence bag. And then Victor found a second, not far away, also marked "7.62".

"I'm getting a feeling about this." Victor said. André nodded. Victor Tugelbend, after many adventures, had returned to Ankh-Morpork and like many an over-educated over-intelligent misfit before him, probably unemployable elsewhere for exactly those reasons, had drifted into the Watch. He had risen quickly in the Particulars where his unique skills were valued, and had spent a lot of down-time reading up on old bizarre cases such as the Gonne-killer of some years ago.

"Let's say the killer was standing here. _Gonnes_ eject these cases, don't they, when the projectile has been fired and the casing is _spent._ The body is there. Bodies tend not to move after they've been hit by the projectile from a _gonne._ And we know from the old case that the projectile goes straight through, punches out a big hole, and keeps on going until it's stopped by a wall or something. So we need to look at that wall over _there_. Coming?"

They found it, embedded deep in a wall, where fresh shattered brickwork indicated something had hit it with enough force to spall off an outer layer.

"That clinches it, then" said André, dropping the mis-shapen slug into the evidence bag. Gonne. Now we need _witnesses_."

* * *

A street patrol, doing a random raid on the premises of a known dealer in stolen weapons, found the Thief Ernest Paddie trying to get a good return on more weapons than one man could reasonably carry for self-defence. At first he was reluctant to talk, but a clenched fist from Sergeant Detritus offered every incentive.

"He was weird, Sergeant! Talked like a toff, little bit of a Llamedosian accent, but seemed confused. Killed two men quicker nor you could believe, then took their purses and their loot. Then he asked me all sorts of daft questions, as if he couldn't tell arseholes from breakfast time. Dint seem to know where he was and talked good Morporkian, although he dint call it that, had some other word for it. That weapon he's carrying, I ain't seen nothing like it before! He's deadly! Description? Ok, he was…"

And a reasonably accurate description of Philip Holtack emerged, which the Watch duly noted.

"This you lucky day, Ernie!" Detritus boomed. "Since we now has a bigger problem to deal with, I will not now notice you been robbin' bodies for their weapons. You can take your money for these pieces of cutlery which I have not seen, and you can then come with us to pos-ee-tiv-ley identify this person! Ain't you _lucky_?"

And the net closed in.

* * *

Holtack took position in the dark shadow of a deep, ornate, doorway. This allowed him to watch the passing trade on The Street of Negotiable Affection without being seen himself. He gambled on people glimpsing him, taking him for somebody who had a right to be there, and walking on hurriedly.

He'd just had another little culture-shock. Two circus clowns and a mediaeval jester had accosted him in the street. Blinking unbelievingly, he had listened to the jester, who seemed to be the brains of the outfit, demanding to know what sort of Fool's motley is _that_, mister? You impersonating a Clown while not being a Guild member? 'Cos that's _naughty_, that!

_No, but you have to be an idiot to join up, _he thought.

Blinking at the sheer unbelievable absurdity of it, all he could think of to say was a dim and distant memory of having been forced to study Shakespeare in English Lit. He recalled the fool Feste's line from _**Twelfth Night**_…

"Sowter shall cry out upon it, though it be as rank as a fox!"

Mr Parr, the English master, had steadfastly maintained that was _funny._ A disbelieving class had dissected the line, tried every conceivable way of making it sound funny, right down to Monty Python funny voices, and concluded that there was no way on earth that was meant to be a joke. Shakespeare was taking the piss, right? Either that, or Elizabethan audiences were more easily pleased, or they had a different sense of humour, or (they suspected) the clowns had ditched the crap script and ad-libbed some funnier gags on stage.

The jester stepped back, open mouthed, soundlessly repeating the line. Holtack followed through with

_By my life, this is my lady's hand! These be her  
very C's, her U's and her T's, and thus makes she her  
great P's. It is, in contempt of question, her hand._

To his astonishment, the Jester and the two clowns laughed.

"Sowter shall cry out on't… that line is a _killer_! It'll slay 'em! quick, anyone got a pen and paper? OK, friend, sorry about that, we misjudged you. You've got the verbals, alright!"

After that, he'd retreated into the dark of the doorway. He still felt he'd missed a point with the Clowns; but felt oddly reassured, that if people dressed like _that _could walk these streets and everyone around them considered it normal, he might stand a better chance than he thought. (_Memo – jesters here can be bought off with bad Shakespeare. It's as if they've never heard it before and it's fresh and new to them.)_

* * *

Jocasta, watching and listening from above, winced. She'd almost been forced to intervene twice now, sensing this man was more important to the Guild alive than dead. Once when he'd been attacked on Shamlegger Street – _that man has been trained! - _and a second time when it looked as if he'd have to fight off the clowns. _And where did he learn clownspeak? _

And now a third peril, the deadliest of all that he'd so far encountered, was walking up the step towards him. She began to make her way down to street level, deciding quickly that Alice's original instruction had been overtaken by events.

* * *

"You're in our doorway. Dearie." said one of the two women, flatly.

Holtack looked them over. They were dressed and painted as if they'd just stepped out of a Hammer Horror movie. They looked like just the sort of Whitechapel working girls who were minutes away from a terminal meeting with Jack the Ripper.

Only they looked as if they'd end up gutting Jack with his own knives. They had a hard, streetwise, look to them. And probably concealed weapons.

"Yeah" said the other. "Move on. Unless you want to negotiate a price. Or we'll call for the Aunts."

_There was something about the way she'd said "Aunts". It didn't call up a picture of an indulgent sister of your parents of the sort who was good for treats and extra pocket money, somehow._

He thought, quickly. He really needed to get off these streets. And he needed somebody to tell him about how this crazy society worked. And he had the local currency. He shuddered at the idea of actually, you know, _that_, with _either_ of them. But perhaps he could buy information and good advice and ideas. Off the street somewhere, in a reputable bar or restaurant.

"Well, perhaps we could come to some agreement…" Holtack said, slowly.

"I'm new to this town and I need somebody to tell me how things work.."

"Well, why not try _me_?" a third voice said. "I've lived here all my life and I come a lot cheaper. In fact, I'll tell you everything you need to know for nothing."

Holtack jumped. He could have sworn blind the slender black-clad shape hadn't been there a moment ago. He – _she_ – pulled back her hood, revealing crinkly auburn hair and anxious eyes that belied her apparent confidence.

She ran forward and took Holtack's arm; the one that was holding his rifle.

"Guild business. Sorry." She said to the two women.

"Here, you can't take our customer away like that…"

"Very true." said the girl. "Noblesse must oblige, and all that." She nudged Holtack.

"I know you're carrying some money" she said. "Give them five dollars and then let's get out of here. Call it rent on their doorway."

"Each" said the other tart, emphatically.

Holtack fumbled for a ten, taking care not to bring the full roll out, and handed it over.

"For your time, ladies." he mumbled. The girl tugged him along with surprising strength. Holtack smiled at her.

"It looks like I'm in your hands." he said.

"Let's get you off the street before you cause any more commotion. Café Necros is still open. You _do_ drink coffee, don't you?"

She looked at him with big anxious eyes and he realised, with a start, she was actually quite pretty. About nineteen, maybe twenty, a nose that was almost button, brown eyes, a smattering of freckles…_OK, so Alice Band and her girls apart, you haven't seen an attractive woman for four months…but is this the time? _

"Oh, yes. And I'm a sucker for a sympathetic face!"

The girl pulled him on., past the big ornate mansion. It appeared to be doing a thriving trade, whatever its business was.

"Seamstresses' Guild" she said, shortly. "If they'd called the Aunts out, you'd have been in _big _trouble!"

She amended this to

"But maybe you are already. I need to talk to you."

_I think I can trust her, _he thought_. There's an air about her. As if she's worried she's doing it right and she thinks somebody is going to tap her on the shoulder and say "no, no, no, that's all wrong!"_

They walked on and turned right into another busy road.

"Treacle Mine Street." The girl said. "And just a bit further up… "

She led him into a shop that was brightly lit compared to other buildings on the street, but still dim to Holtack's eyes. He could smell… _yes_. Coffee.

"Sit here. I'll be back".

He relaxed into a side table with a bench-seat against a back wall. From here he could watch both door and counter. The girl was moving to the counter, through other young people, looking like school sixth-formers, also dressed in black. She greeted several by name and had an animated conversation with one about something called Edificeering, which he gathered from the context was like urban mountaineering combined with free-running across the rooftops.

Then she said "It's getting on! I know I'm not here to police you, but do bear in mind it's curfew at the Guild in half an hour!"

Interestingly, she spoke with a voice of authority, and the coffee-shop gradually emptied.

Holtack completely missed the conversation she'd had in finger-code with a senior student, whilst superficially talking edificeering. It had read _Alert Miss Band. I am with wanted man._

"So – who are you?" he asked, as she returned with two welcome coffees. "What do you do?"

"I'm training to be a teacher." she said. "They were some of my pupils. They're a good bunch and they know if they get back to school late they're in trouble."

Holtack knew the feeling.

"Ah. Boarders."

"Indeed. I'm Jocasta, by the way. Jocasta Wiggs."

"Philip Holtack. Army officer."

Jocasta looked at him from over her coffee cup.

"I thought so. I have a friend. Millie. She's at the military training college in Sto Lat learning how to be an officer. Something about you reminds me of her. But tell me about yourself and I'll answer anything you ask honestly. Deal?"

Holtack had been prepared for tougher interrogation.

"Deal!"

* * *

**(1) **See Terry Pratchett's _**Men At Arms.**_

**(2) **Soldiers who were RTU'd from Special Forces, for whatever reason, were expected to perform an unofficial role of "talent-scouting" for potential recruits who met the formidably high standards of the Special Air Service. Given the mythical status of the SAS in the world's Special Forces community, a lot of wannabees and dreamers also tried to enlist. Another task assigned to a Kosher Greenberg rotated back to a line infantry battalion would have been to gently dissuade the dreamers and the no-hopers, before too much time and effort had been wasted and the inevitable humiliating failure happened.

**(3) **Really true. The Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA) the governing body for Irish traditional sports, took a purist view for a long long time. It refused to let any of its sports grounds be used for the sports of the English occupier, such as rugby, cricket and football, a decision that cost Ireland the chance to co-host Football's World Cup. (The largest and best sports arena in Dublin could accommodate 120,000 people and would have been a shoe-in for the World Cup Final. The snag was it belonged to the GAA, who heard all the arguments for tourism, trade, international goodwill and Irish prestige on the world stage – and _still_ flatly refused to let Croke Park be sullied by the English game.) The GAA has only recently relaxed its absolute ban on members of the British security forces, or their families, or their distant relatives, playing Irish traditional sports…

**(4) **Bayonets were not normally carried on Northern Irish streets. In the early days, senior officers, schooled in dealing with colonial riots during the ebb-tide of Empire, had seen the Northern Irish as just another form of stroppy native who could be frightened off by the sight of a line of gleaming bayonets. But there were too many news-crews in town for those bayonets to be actually _used_, and the Irish knew it. Besides, a bayonet dangling uselessly at a soldier's belt was just dead weight, and too easily stolen in hand-to-hand struggling during a riot.


	14. The Civil Power

_**Slipping Between Worlds 14**_

_**The Watch House, Pseudopolis Yard , Ankh-Morpork.**_

"So let me summarise." the Patrician said. Vetinari had hastily summoned together a select small circle of advisors rather than a full City Council meeting. Commander Vimes and Inspector Loudweather were there for the Watch. Lord Downey, Lady de Meserole and Miss Sanderson-Reeves, the only Dark Council members who as yet were available, for the Guild of Assassins, and Ridcully and Stibbons for the University. Lords Rust and Venturi had blustered their way in, as those who cannot be kept away from a splendid crisis, and have every expectation that their sage counsel will be welcome.

Ponder had brought several omniscope compacts with him, and had suggested these could be used to keep the hunt commanders in touch with each other and HEX. He had already given one to Johanna, who had gone out into the field with other Assassins to seek to bring the escapees from Roundworld into custody.

"Professor Stibbons has briefed us that the breakthrough from Roundworld allowed seven human and two non-human intelligences to manifest in this city. HEX has pinpointed the arrival points of our visitors, and search parties have proceeded to those points so as to begin tracking them. But people are mobile, and there is no guarantee they will still be at those locations. HEX can only pinpoint where they entered this city. It cannot, regrettably, track them across it.

"We do, however, have one such person in safe protective custody who appeared in the University Library and did not get much further. Captain Carrot is interrogating him even as we speak. Early intelligence from this interrogation suggests that the greater part, perhaps all, of our visitors are military personnel. This supports the hypothesis advanced by HEX and Professor Stibbons."

"_SOLDIERS?" _Rust exploded. "D'you mean to say we've been _invaded_, Havelock?"

"Only accidentally, as far as we can tell." Ponder said.

"But even so, man! Your blasted Roundworld project has let somebody else's Army in here without invitation, and carrying these damn gonne-weapons, whatever they are! I'd be downstairs interrogating this prisoner to within an inch of his life!"

"He isn't a prisoner, Ronald." said Vimes. "Captain Carrot chose, and I agree with him, to call it "protective custody". As much for his protection as for ours. And as for interrogation, he's actually a private soldier. How much of the big picture does a private ever get to know that's useful to an interrogator? You should know that, you employ enough. Invite 'em to tea, do you? Ask their opinion at your command conferences, do you?"

"Don't be absurd, man!" snapped Rust.

"What about these "non-human intelligences", then? Should we be more worried?" Downey asked.

Vetinari raised a hand.

"Professor?"

Ponder stepped forwards.

"Sir, we believe the key to all this lies ultimately in the Hive. As you know, we sent out a mission earlier today to completely destroy it, after disturbing signs that it was returning to life again. For one thing, it was laying fresh eggs and one of the, er, wheeled stages in its development has been seen around the city. As the eggs are known to develop into those things with wheels, Sergeant Angua raised the alarm and went into the Hive to check it. What she saw gave cause for alarm for the security of the City, and precipitated today's attack, in which one person was killed and another is in the isolation ward."

_Dwarf and an Igor, no great loss! _muttered an upper-class voice.

"And both of them Watchmen!" growled Vimes, in a voice that had harmonics.

"Miss Smith-Rhodes led an Assassin demolition team, who planted several large explosive devices in all parts of the Hive to be sure of its total destruction. With extreme prejudice, you might say. Um. "

"That gel's too fond of blowing things up." somebody muttered.

"It's the vital skill that got her in the Guild in the first place!" Joan Sanderson-Reeves pointed out. Ponder continued.

"HEX suggested to me that this explosion resonated, via means as yet unknown, to Roundworld, which some people believe to be a parallel version of our Discworld. On that planet, we know that at any one time in human history quite a few smaller and greater wars are happening. All nation states consequently have armies of greater or lesser size and capability. There is a region, of a country called Ireland, which is disputed, and what amounts to civil war has raged over a large part of its history, with frequent uneasy peaces. Towards the end of the twentieth century, the dominant nation state of Great Britain placed a large army in the disputed region, as a peacekeeping force to support the civilian police in maintaining normal law and order. "

Ponder paused.

"Sounds like Hergen to me!" said a voice. "We had no end of bother there until we pulled out and left them to it."

"A favourite weapon of the insurgents was the car-bomb. Where a…mode of transport…. was filled with explosive matter, parked, and detonated to cause maximum damage and fatality. "

"JUST like bloody Hergen, then." said somebody.

"All Roundworld's nation states have armed forces." Vetinari repeated, in a flat voice. "Carry on, Professor."

"HEX looked through the records of that conflict and found an incidence where such a large bomb was used that it apparently vaporised an entire patrol drawn from a British regiment, the Royal Welch. An officer and five men died in that bombing, and no recognisable trace of their bodies was found. Now the interesting thing is that our guest downstairs identifies himself as a member of that Regiment. He has also described circumstances which tally with the historical record perfectly. He has named an officer and other men whom he believes were nearby when the bomb exploded. Those names – including his - match the names of the men who apparently died that day."

Ponder handed Vetinari, Downey and Commander Vimes a slim file each.

"The latest print-outs from HEX." Ponder said. "I believe these are the men we are looking for."

Vetinari nodded.

"Sterling detection work, Professor. But how did they come to end up here?"

"We believe that in some way, the explosions that destroyed the Hive, and the explosion in the Roundworld city of Londonderry, were psychically linked, sir. Something – I am assuming it is one of the non-human intelligences we have detected – acted as a bridge in some way and connected the two blasts. We are still trying to identify the trigger mechanism involved, as a matter of some urgency."

"And that blew our guests literally out of their own world." Vetinari surmised. "Commander?"

"What I don't understand, sir, is this. If those six or seven people were all in a tight little group when they were transported out of their own world, how come they're scattered all over the city when they arrive here?"

.

"Divergence, Sir Samuel.." said Ponder. "The further things travel, the more they spread apart".

"Oh, like shit on a shovel, you mean? It's all there in one place on the shovel, but the further you throw it the more people it splashes."

"That's… something of an apt anology, sir…"

A Dark Clerk arrived.

"Communications from the Assassins' Guild.,.." He looked uncertainly at Vetinari.

"By all means give them to Lord Downey." nodded the Patrician.

Downey read his messages intently. Vetinari allowed him a few moments to do so. Vimes took advantage of the pause to go to the door, call a Watchman, and pass over the folder with an order to get this copied and circulated.

Rust and Venturi conferred in low voices. Or at least, what they thought were low voices. Vetinari cut in.

"Permission to raise your Regiments is denied, gentlemen." He said, curtly. "For one thing I wish to avoid un-necessary loss of like. For a second, the example of a _gonne_ weapon we have in our possession is rather more advanced then any weaponry issued to your men. Thirdly, Captain Carrot's low-key detention of one of our guests was exemplary, and is the model I should wish you all to follow in tracking down and accounting for our visitors. Flood the streets with obvious soldiers, and certain trained reflexes may dominate the actions of some rather frightened, disorientated, shocked and desperate men. . Who on their own world are extremely well-trained fighting soldiers who have weaponry at their disposal that is capable of decimating your infantry. I will not have needless deaths on my conscience, and neither should you! "

"But one of these damn invaders already has killed! Twice! And another did his best to make a trophy out of Ridcully's pet mon…_ape_!" shouted Venturi, going purple.

"It is _not_ hard to reconstruct what happened. A desperate man, alone in a strange place, was attacked by two vicious unlicenced thieves. He had a weapon and used it in self-defence. A court would find it hard to establish a case for murder there. And the shot fired at the Librarian happily went astray and succeeded only in putting a hole in the library ceiling. Arch-chancellor Ridcully caused more damage by his unwise exploration of the nature of the weapon."

"And _what _a weapon, m'lord!" breathed Ridcully. "Such _power_!"

Vetinari frowned.

"And that is another problem with gonnes. As Doctor Cruces discovered, once picked up, they are very hard to put down again."

Downey put down his despatches.

"My Lord, fresh news. A member of my staff was taking an Edificeering lesson into the Shades. She and her pupils witnessed the killing of the two thieves. I have their reports here."

"Let me see, Donald" requested Vimes. "Ah, Alice. Now _she's_ a reliable witness!"

Read it aloud, please, Lord Downey." requested Vetinari. Downey did so. Alice's report was concise, descriptive and accurate.

"And a verbal supplement has arrived, indirectly, from Miss Wiggs" he added. "She has this man with her in a coffee house on the Treacle Mine Road. Café Necros."

"Well, why didn't you say so to begin with!" Vimes exploded.

He ran to the door without asking leave.

"He appeared at his ease and quite taken with Miss Wiggs." Downey continued. "She may have been able to hold him there."

Vimes was shouting instructions to all available Watchmen.

." Café Necros.". mused Vetinari. "That's one of the new ones, isn't it? I find it rather hard to keep track of all those new coffee houses that are proliferating across the City. Café Nero, Tarbucks, Café Necros… "

"Café Necros is apparently the current trendy venue for my senior students, my Lord." Downey said, taking smug pleasure in Vimes' obvious irritation that the Assassins had got there first. "Last year it was Tarbucks, but apparently Necros is the cool place to be these days".

"And of course it's run by very cool, trendy, people!" Vetinari agreed. "Like calling to like, I think!"

* * *

"I'm away from the school for most of the term, to be honest." Jocasta said, earnestly. "The biggest reason why they gave me a job after graduating was that I scored highly on Wilderness Survival and outdoor activities. I take the classes out, and free up a fully trained teacher for School duties. It has to be this way, otherwise with getting on for two thousand pupils, we'd never be able to fit everything in!"

"So let me get this straight in my head" Holtack requested. Your… school for professional Assassins… takes in over three hundred pupils every year. You've got nearly two thousand on the rolls at any given time. Surely you're turning out more Assassins every year than there are jobs for them? I mean, surely there aren't enough…_clients_…to go round?"

Jocasta laughed. It was an oddly sane, joyous, sound, given her profession.

"Well, no. All pupils get at least a grounding in the Art. But in the first four years, the emphasis is on general education, you know, the sort of things any school anywhere teaches. Around fifteen or sixteen, the pupils make the choice, to stay on Take Black, that is, and become full Assassins. A lot of them elect to leave at this point, and go on to other schools and colleges and follow other careers. The ones who Take Black, and that's less than half of the ones who start with us aged eleven, then go on an intense three-year training course where they are learning nothing else but. You get some fall-out along the way, people who realise they're doing the wrong thing for them, or people who Fail at one point or another. And then there's the Final Exam, where there's always going to be those who wash out and Fail. We might have no more than a hundred and twenty people graduating every year with Black. And for a lot of those, just having done the training and passed is achievement enough. I'd say no more than sixty people from my year are actually active in the profession. Maybe less. That's one out of every five who started."

Holtack frowned. She'd pronounced the word Fail as if it had a capital letter. He wasn't sure how you Failed at a school for Assassins. But from context, it sounded fairly terminal.

"And you?" she asked. Holtack sighed. St Edmund's had given him seven interesting years, although now he had a comparison point, it sounded suspiciously like the Assassins' Guild School in many vital respects. Draughty cold dorms which made the first and second years an endurance test against winter illnesses; the continual rub of being one of a thousand males thrust together into a highly competitive environment; a hierarchy based on sporting excellence and not academic achievement; the assault course of going into what was effectively a Northern English mill town with a Welsh accent and a black-and-yellow uniform that proclaimed you were one of those uppity bastards from the toffs' school; the running fights with kids from the nearby state comprehensive to whom a black-and-yellow uniform was an invitation to class warfare. And there'd been the State grammar over the road, the one that selected only on the basis of eleven-plus passers, which aped the manners and morals of a minor public school.**(1) **This opened a third front for street-fighting, although the unwritten agreement was for kids from St Edmunds and the Grammar to set their differences aside and jointly fight the yobbery from Dialstone Lane Comprehensive, who would cheerfully set about kids from both. It was, Holtack reflected, a microcosm of the British class system: lower-upper and upper middle class (St Edmunds) mutually loathing the lower middle and skilled working classes. (the State Grammar) but showing a united front against the plebs and the underclass (the Comprehensive). He knew the three headmasters regularly got together for a social drink and earnest discussion about reducing the body count in the street.

"We've got something like that here!" Jocasta said, barely able to conceal her amusement. "With us, it's the Thieves' Guild School just down the road. They teach a lot of the same skills as we do, edificeering, knifework, hand-to-hand combat, and so on. It's just that their pupils don't come from the same social class, so to speak. There's always friction!"

"Thieves' Guild?"

"It's a long story…" she said, wondering how to explain Ankh-Morpork's possibly unique accommodation with organised crime to a stranger who was as complete as any she was ever likely to encounter.

"Try me" said Holtack. "I could use a refill!"

One of the pretty, Gothic-looking, waitresses smiled at them and went to refill their cups. Holtack looked uncertain for a second. Her teeth were a bit _strange_, weren't they? Very pure white, for one thing, and the way the dim light had caught her canines...

He shook off the mental image of Ingrid Pitt playing the Countess Bathory in a Hammer movie as ridiculous, and returned to Jocasta. Idly, he wondered what the twist of black ribbon the waitress wore at her lapel symbolised.

He then heard, to his incredulous surprise, all about the Thieves' Guild and the role it played in local society.

"It has a lot of advantages" Jocasta said. "The Thieves' Guild raises revenue from the citizens. A proportion of that is paid on to Lord Vetinari. Effectively, the Patrician gets much the same as if he was directly taxing the people. It's levied by a very efficient organisation, that takes the blame both for the money it extorts as well as for any annual rises in insurance."

"And that's Lord Vetinari on the bank-notes?" he asked.

She nodded confirmation.

"And crime here works on the basis of people paying the thieves protection money. Neat. Or at least…" he recalled very recent experience, "the _official_ Thieves."

"Yes" she said, remembering too. She was having difficulty reconciling the pleasant young man sitting opposite her with the ruthless killer who'd blasted two men into oblivion and then searched their bodies for cash. "There are always _unofficial _Thieves. They tend not to last long, though, before the Watch or the Guild catch up with them."

"The Watch?"

"The City Watch. They used to be just a bunch of drunks and losers who nobody ever took seriously. Then Sam Vimes came along."

She suddenly looked reflective and faraway, as if contemplating an old embarrassing memory.

"The police force. They are _good._ They're probably looking for the man who killed two Thieves in Monkey Street right now. So we'd better sit tight, drink a few more coffees, and work out what to do with you."

Holtack sighed. He wondered about surrendering himself to the local police. But he'd just killed two men. That was a powerful argument against, even if he could be sure of a fair hearing.

"Who is Sam Vimes?" he asked. Knowing something about the man who ran the police force could be useful.

Jocasta smiled.

"I'll give you the short story…"

Holtack settled himself to listen, wondering if any of the men had made it over here, and if so, where they were and if he was likely to see them again.

* * *

Andy Shank was an angry young man. He was not about to be made any less angry by what was just about to happen to him.

Humiliated in public – he had allowed old Hoggett to punch him in the face and he'd been too scared to fight back – and humiliated in private by that mincing little _pouf_, the one who'd put the scars on his face, he was trying to claw back some respect by rebuilding the Posse. But people were finding it easier to say "no" to him these days.

He'd got Maxie and Jumbo, and Fartmeister Carter, who despite having been beaten to a pulp by Andy's thus, maintained he didn't hold any grudges. Carter was probably pathetically grateful for whatever semblance of friendship he could get. Jumbo, at least, was a licenced thief, so after Guild premium he would share out any proceeds. It just needed a mark they could roll over.

And the two men in strange clothing who'd just seemed to appear out of the air looked ideal. They seemed confused, consternated even, and were in low-voiced debate about where the bloody yell they were, and what to do about it. One was holding what looked like a complex club – have to watch that – and the other had a firm grasp on something that looked like a metalworker's nightmare. Andy couldn't see what sort of purpose it served at all. But he led the Posse forwards, hand raised in the universal "Halt!", grinning viciously, letting the diagonal scars on his face speak for themselves.

47 Williams and Powell watched them approach.

"Looks like trouble, Forty-Seven!" Powell said, conversationally. "I don't know about you, but I'm in the mood for some trouble right now!"

Forty-seven allowed the plastic baton round discharger to angle towards the group of scruffy-looking yobs.

"The one to watch is Scarface." he said, cheerfully. "That fat kid on the end looks as if he's about to cack himself"

"Who are you calling Scarface!" demanded Andy, happy at having been given a reason to take offence. "You bloody Llamedosians are on our turf! This is Dimwell!"

Powell didn't speak much Welsh. He looked to Forty-Seven.

"Search me" said Forty-Seven. "It _sounds _Welsh. But it does not mean anything much."

Shank held out a hand.

"Money. Valuables. Watches. Give."

"Let's get this straight, boy" Powell said. "You are trying to _rob _us?"

Andy grinned and brought out his trusty cutlass. Maxie and Jumbo, on cue, produced their weapons.

Powell shook his head.

"Oh dear oh dear oh dear. Better give them something valuable, Forty-Seven."

"My thoughts exactly, J.J.!"

Andy Shank, when he woke up later on in the Lady Sybil with broken ribs, extensive rupture and contusions, could remember only the sound and blast from the stranger who'd been toting the useless ironmongery.

Andy had become the first person on the Discworld to be hit by a plastic bullet.**(2)** As Forty-Seven remarked later, at two or three quid a shot, they're pricey munitions. Quite valuable, in fact. Powell then asked Williams to mind his SLR, stepped forward, and head-butted Maxie with a lot of malice aforethought. As Jumbo turned to run, Powell caught his shoulder, swung him round and delivered a devastating punch.

This left only Fartmeister, who proved very amenable to interrogation on broadly similar lines to that earlier carried out by Holtack.

After searching the unconscious Dimmers for cash and valuables, the two lost Fusiliers proceeded up Dimwell Street towards Hide Park. They used some of the cash en route to purchase bread, cheese, and other easily portable foodstuffs. Then they made a decision to go to ground in the Park overnight – it was big enough, with plenty of undergrowth a division could have camouflaged itself in - and see what the morning held.

* * *

"Commander Vimes? There's a report of two more of them in the Dimwell area" said Sergeant Pessimal.

"That makes four now." Vimes said. "One in custody, one on Treacle Mine road who we're closing the net on, and now these two. Stibbons said there were up to seven, didn't he?"

"Yes, sir. We still have three who are unaccounted for. Here's the digest of the Dimwell sighting…"

Vimes read the report. Then grinned. Then laughed out loud.

"Andy Shank. I can't think of a better person to be turned over by visitors from another world. When we pull these two in, A.E., I'm shaking them both by the hand, alright?"

"Indeed, sir. I was thinking that since all the information points to the visitor in Treacle Mine Road being the senior officer among these alien soldiers, you might wish to be personally present? If we detain their officer, it might help bring about the surrender of the rest."

* * *

Sergeant Fred Colon, having collected in and sent out all the Specials who were ever going to join the muster, had run out of excuses. On a night where _everybody_ was needed on the street, he had no choice other than to join his old friend and partner Corporal "Nobby" Nobbs, and seek to stay away from event and excitement by applying old-fashioned policing techniques.

They were proposing to do this by sloping off for a cup of hot coffee somewhere which they could drink at their ease whilst watching the world go by. It was their mixed fortune that Treacle Mine Road was on their beat.

* * *

Holtack nodded. Samuel Vimes was apparently a policeman who would follow a suspect into Hell to make an arrest, incorruptible, not frightened to arrest the City's ruler for getting it wrong, and a man who could be relied upon to give anybody a fair shake. _There might be worse to give myself up to, _he thought.

"And he's been good to me." Jocasta added. "I like him. Under the gruff he's… well, less gruffy."

Then she became businesslike again.

"Show me this _gonne_?" she hazarded. "Professional interest in weapons."

Holtack nodded, and brought it out onto the table. Before offering it to Jocasta so she could get a feel for its weight and balance, he deftly removed the magazine and extracted the ready round that was in the breech.

"In case of accidents" he explained, pointing out to her that the _weapon_, most properly speaking, was in the power contained in the sleek brass _cartridge_ which, when ignited, propelled the _bullet._ The rifle itself was merely the delivery system that aimed the weapon accurately.

She was a quick learner, but he wasn't surprised: assimilating new and unfamiliar weapons quickly was probably part of the Assassins' School ethos. He promised himself he'd like to visit there – Jocasta had said the Guild was keen to speak to him (but in a non-lethal manner) – and see for himself what it did. It sounded interesting.

It was while she was sighting it at the door that the two policemen walked in: both were dressed in a manner vaguely reminiscent of Civil War Roundheads, even though they made Holtack think of Laurel and Hardy.

As their eyes adjusted to the dim light, provided by candles and oil-lamps, the smaller man, who had an air of Gollum crossed with George McDonald Fraser's Private McAuslan**(3)**, leapt in fear.

"Sarge…Sarge! Fred! It's a gonne! It's a sodding _gonne_! And that's him! The Monkey Street Murderer!"

Holtack sighed. Jocasta smiled in welcome and handed him back the rifle. He waved it vaguely in the direction of the two policemen.

"Gentlemen, why don't you get a coffee each and come and join us? I've just been hearing about Sir Samuel Vimes. I have a feeling I'm going to be talking to him very soon."

* * *

Ten minutes later, unknown to either Nobbs or Colon, Treacle Mine Road was being sealed, two hundred yards either side of Café Necros, by crowd-control barriers and about forty Watchmen and Specials.

A special squad of Trolls and Golems was being assembled to find the back door of the Café, and a gargoyle was being deployed to the rooftop to relay instructions. Having pieced together his odyssey across the City from Monkey Street from talking to various Thieves, Seamstresses and Clowns, it was thought such a crafty and resourceful character might still elude arrest by slipping out of the back door. Vimes was determined that in that case, he'd run into relatively gonne-proof officers who could then make the arrest.

Vimes still wanted to being this about with minimal force. He had a feeling the man, what was his name, Holtack, wasn't a vicious pleasure-killer. After all, six thieves had attacked him and four were still alive to talk about it, or in one case would do once the wires came out of his jaw. The other prisoner, Hughes, had described his officer as being "quite a decent bloke, really. Thinks before he acts, most of the time."

Orders if he came out shooting were simple: give him a last chance to surrender, then set up an arrow-storm from forty-odd crossbows. Better he died than up to twenty of my watchmen. (Hughes had said those gonnes could fire twenty rounds before needing to be reloaded. Vimes shuddered at the implications. The last one only went up to six) But Vimes felt it wouldn't come to that. From what Hughes had said, this wasn't a suicide case. He was a trained Army officer who would rationally weigh up the odds and surrender. At least, Vimes fervently wished so. The other sort of Army officer was called Lord Rust.

"All in place, sir!"

Vimes nodded. "Better give him the warning, then." He paused.

"Who's that coming out? _Nobby_? "

"Don't shoot!" Nobby Nobbs screamed, "Message for Mr Vimes! From the gonneman!"

* * *

" I _could _ask you to come with me to the Guild of your own free will." Jocasta said, doubtfully. "But I'm sure the Patrician would over-rule that and insist you return to City custody. Which means Mr Colon and Mr Nobbs, here."

Holtack looked at the two old street coppers, who, once they'd been reassured they weren't going to be shot, had sat down to drink their coffee. Looking at him as if he were a creature from another world. _Which of course, I am._

He looked at Fred Colon. _A typical base depot three-striper. He's been kept on long past retirement age, because either he's got some sort of irreplaceable skill, or more likely because he's the only one who knows where everything is, and if he were discharged tomorrow there'd be utter chaos the day after. Battalion Quartermaster-Sergeant Edwards is one of that type. He must be pushing sixty, but the Army can't let him go because only he knows where all the essential stores are. My guess is he won't hurry training up his replacement till he's nearly sixty-five. This sort of sergeant will never fight another war and never willingly leave the depot again. He's got it made. Retirement whilst still nominally working and drawing a wage. _

And Nobbs…._Now I understand Dand MacNeill_**(4)**_ better. Give this man an impenetrable Glaswegian accent and he's Private McAuslan to the life. But brighter – well, more cunning – and at some point they made him a Corporal, probably for long service. He'll have some honour and he won't let down his mates, but he'll use his experience and his cunning to get cushy numbers, maybe steal a few things that don't apparently belong to anyone. _

Holtack asked both about the little things – wives, children, grandchildren. What life was like for a corporal and sergeant of the Watch. What sort of crimes they dealt with and so on.

Vaguely flattered by the attention, they'd answered him honestly and he felt the ice was cracking, if not breaking. Then Jocasta had raised the issue of demarcation. He noticed the two Watchmen were just as wary and frightened of an Assassin as they were of him.

"Listen, gentlemen" he said, making his decision. "I've heard that Commander Vimes is a fair-minded man. You two look like reasonable men. I'm not running any more. You'll run me down eventually, and as Miss wigs says, I doubt the Guild of Assassins could hold me for long without my being returned to your custody. So either way I get to meet Commander Vimes. It may as well be now. Corporal Nobbs, could I ask you to go back to your superiors and say I'm willing to hand myself in? Sergeant Colon, will you accept my surrender in return for fair treatment? It might mean a commendation for you both, or something. And I'll be waiting her, in the custody of Sergeant Colon? Thank you. "

He smiled ruefully at Jocasta.

"I'd _really_ like to see you again" he said, meaning it. "I'm sure your Guild will want to keep an eye on me so it knows where I am. Could you perhaps visit me in prison?"

_Make sure somebody other than the police knows you're in a cell. So you can't accidentally vanish, if that serves anyone's interests better. _

"That makes it sound as if we were out on a date!" Jocasta said, reddening slightly. Nobbs snickered. "But yes, I would like to see you again. You've been a very nice mass-murderer to speak to and share a coffee with! And I might want to visit you _out _of prison as well!"

_Right now I'm knackered. I'll put up with whatever interrogation they hand out. As long as I get a nice warm cell afterwards. _

Nobby went off to return to the Watch-house. They all heard him screaming in the street "_Don't shoot! Message for Mr Vimes! From the gonneman!"_

It sounds like the Watch are here already" Jocasta said.

"They are" one of the pointy-toothed waitresses confirmed. "We heard them arrive twenty minutes ago."

Holtack looked at the pointy teeth. _Ouch. The lengths some Goths will go to, to look like vampires…filing those down must have __**hurt. **_

They waited.

"Just time to finish our coffee, then" he said, sorting out a tip for the waitress.

There was a distorted shout from outside.

_Lieutenant Philip Holtack. You will come out with empty hands raised to where we can see them. miss Wiggs will go first. Segeant Colon will follow you. The premises are surrounded. There are at least forty crossbows pointing at the door Do exactly as you are instructed and you will be safe. _

Holtack returned the rifle's magazine to a pouch.

"Sergeant, as it's your arrest, will you carry my rifle?" he asked.

"Very good, sir!" said Colon. He went to the door.

"Don't shoot! This is Sergeant Colon. I have the gonne, sir!"

As Holtack went towards the door, the girl quickly kissed him on the cheek.

"Be safe!" she said.

Then he was stepping out. And blinking.

_This many policemen? For me? They must want to make sure…_

Then Fred Colon was walking him to an officer who stood watching, furiously smoking a cigar. It didn't take the aura of anger and the scar down one side of his face for Holtack to recognise who he was talking to. As if he was in Colonel Otway-Williams' office, he stamped to attention and threw up the best salute he could. The scarfaced officer winced.

"Lieutenant Philip Holtack, sir. I acknowledge you as a representative of the legally constituted civil authority and as such I offer you my surrender. Sir."

There was a long pause.

Then

"Are you taking the piss?" asked Vimes, suspiciously.

* * *

**(1) **Embarrassingly for "St Edmunds", the State Grammar over the road consistently out-performed them in terms of exam passes and academic achievement. Many local families who could afford to educate their children privately elected to get them through the eleven-plus and into this school instead, and save the fees money.

"St Edmunds" is an amalgam of several fee-paying and boarding schools, with one predominating.

**(2) **The standard baton round – about five inches long and an inch and a half wide, fired from a modified shotgun cartridge - is a munition loathed by Irish Republicans who continually petition for its withdrawal from use. Standard orders are to aim the discharger at the ground and allow the round to bounce randomly into a group of rioters. This takes power out of the baton and makes it less likely to cause permanent injury when it hits. It also demoralises rioters if they realise it can hit any one of them – not necessarily the person nearest the gun. Sinn Fein protest about its use on Republican demonstrators and point to occasional cases of severe injury to support the case that it represents excessive force. Unionist (protestant) politicians applaud it for the same reason, except, for some reason, when the weapon gets used on _their_ malcontents. One of the few British police forces that have bought the weapons and used plastic baton rounds in anger is – you've guessed it – North Wales.

**(3) **In GMcD-F's trilogy of autobiographical short stories about his time in the Gordon Highlanders, the egregious Private McAuslan is rightly held to be The Dirtiest Soldier In The World. Terry Pratchett is known to have read these stories and they were an influence on the NacMacFeegle. Did the character of Private McAuslan help to inspire Nobby Nobbs?

**(4)** Dand MacNeill: Lieutenant, Gordon Highlanders. George McDonald Fraser's alternate persona in the McAulan series of books.


	15. Divergent Evolution

_**Slipping Between Worlds 15**_

_**The Assassins' Guild School, Filigree Street, Ankh-Morpork.**_

Matron Igorina had only nominal teaching duties in the School. But she still wore the purple teaching sash for occasional lecturing work of a vital but thankless kind.

General opinion in the Guild school staffroom was that the nebulous and dreaded educational area known by the euphemism of _Personal and Social Development_ was a vital component in turning out well-rounded and mature young adults, with no phobias or hang-ups about the way Nature had made them.

It was also accepted that some sort of explanation of exactly _how_ Nature had made them was a Good Thing for twelve and thirteen year old pupils to know, as puberty hit them with its full force And that the sooner it was done in the School year, the better, as then the whole wretched business was out of the way.

It was just that, in the firm opinion of most teachers, this vital and necessary part of the curriculum was best taught by _somebody else_, thank you very much.

And then Igorina had arrived, to fill the vacancy left by the passing of the ineffectual School Doctor.**(1)****. **Apart from providing an infinitely better medical service (she loved the idea of working for methodically sane people who still left a trail of interesting injuries behind them, usually caused by over-confidence), she had actually _volunteered_ to teach PSD.

"Does it go against me that I have no formal training qualification?" she had asked.

"Good Gods, no!" Lady T'Malia had said, very quickly. "This is the syllabus. Come up with two lecture plans, one for the boys and one for the girls, and we'll make the big lecture theatre at Heralds available to you."

"Good!" Igorina had said. "There's a lot of _nonsense_ talked about sex and sexuality, and I see it as a duty to these young people to tell them the truth and not hold anything back!"

"Jolly good!" said Lady T'Malia, effusively, relieved that _somebody_, other than Emmanuelle-Marie Lapoignard les Deux-Épées, was prepared to do it.**(2)**

School teachers Davinia Bellamy, Joan Sanderson-Reeves and Gillian Lansbury had duly escorted all of the one hundred and sixty-five Second Year girls across to the Herald-Mollymog campus, to be done in one go by means of a group lecture followed by questions and answers. Davinia, herself the mother of three boys, had left that sort of thing largely in the hands of her husband Peter. But she still worried that she ought to be able to answer at least _some_ of the obvious questions herself. She still wanted a daughter to round her family off, for one thing, and there was the issue of pastoral support to the girls, some of whom, away from home, tended to bring personal worries to an approachable and motherly teacher. It would be interesting to hear Igorina's approach to the whole business.

Davinia had also closed her ears to whispers during the walk across town that _If Belly's taking the lecture, she really will talk about the birds and the bees and the flowers for an hour!_ She suspected they were in for a surprise, but the mood was relaxed and the students were allowed the freedom of being able to talk and appreciate a break in normal schooling. Then they arrived at the former College of Heralds, now a purpose-build campus of the Guild School. Some of the original six-hundred year old architecture had been sensitively retained, where the fire damage had not been too bad, but the bulk of the site, buildings and animal pens, had been built over with the new School. It was generally held to be a success, both architecturally and educationally, and the only problem laid in retaining gardeners who could make something out of land where generations of quasi-mythological creatures had dumped their intimate waste. Specifically, something _safe. _

Although it was held to be good informal training for Assassins if the grass they walked on suddenly grew by three feet and then spontaneously combusted, it wasn't held to be visually attractive. The Extreme Horticulture Department of the University, together with Modo, its inflappable Dwarf head gardener, were acting as consultants to minimise the problem. From a professional point of view, the problem of safe consistent gardening on the Herald campus also interested Davinia, as the Guild's botany mistress.

The three teachers ushered the students into the large showpiece lecture theatre, and took their places at the back.

And listened.

And enjoyed, Joan occasionally calling for silence as the noises of "_Ewww!_" and frightened whimpering got too loud.

Igorina was merciless, using slides and projected iconographs to show the twelve and thirteen year old pupils what surprises their bodies held in store for them, and what they could expect to experience over the coming years. And this was as a warm-up, even before she got onto _sex_…

"Do you think she's going too far?" Gillian anxiously whispered to Joan. Joan, an older teacher with a lot more experience, smiled contentedly, and shook her head.

"She's got them worried." she replied. "And when they're worried, they _listen_. None of 'em are making silly jokes now, m'dear, and you may be sure they'll remember this lesson for a long time!"

Davinia thought back to her own schooldays at the Quirm Academy for Young Ladies, and recalled Miss Delcross flapping around ineffectually at the front of the class, red with embarrassment and leaving them with the impression that respectable young gels were meant to find a suitable rabbit, who kept beehives, preferably in a garden where mulberry bushes bloomed. They'd all felt embarrassed for the old girl, a spinster who was doing her not-very-good best, and had gained their sex education in the usual haphazard way over the next few years, as most adolescents do. But she'd planted mulberry bushes in her first garden, all the same, and planted flowers to encourage the bees. But not rabbits, who ate anything green and growing in sight… at least Igorina was leaving nothing to chance.

Right at the end, she invited Joan to add a few words.

Miss Sanderson-Reeves obliged, and talked gleefully about a time, a long way in your future, when around age fifty, just when you think it's all over and there are no surprises left, something called the _menopause_ starts happening and everything, in a manner of speaking, begins to _unravel. _Joan then clinically described the associated symptoms, just to give them something to think about, and the lesson ended.

And then a hundred and sixty-five wide-eyed, shocked and slightly traumatised girls were filing out, most vowing inside and some saying openly that they would never, ever, not in a million years, bump uglies nor do anything squishy with a boy, _ever._ Not if that was what childbirth was like. I mean, Igorina asked Mrs Bellamy, and she's had _three, uggh, _she said it's the worst pain you'll ever experience short of losing a limb or being disembowelled!

"We won't have any teenage pregnancies out of _this_ lot!" Joan said, satisfied the message had sunk in.

"Well, not many, anyway." added Gillian. (It was an occupational hazard in running a girls' school: so far, the Assassins' Guild had been relatively lucky, and intended things to stay that way with shrewd management.)

Davinia nodded: a side-result of the ineffectual teaching they'd had at QAYL had been a few girls very discreetly being taken out of school before the bump started to show, some re-appearing a few months later looking tired and miserable, the baby having been adopted. Other older girls, she heard, had been forced into face-saving marriages. There was a real need for realistic and effectual sex education, and she'd just watched it being delivered.

And as they left, the hitherto un-noticed Igor slipped in with an urgent message for Igorina. This was Igor clan business. You did not ignore the call from an Igor in trouble. The message said, _you are needed in the isolation ward of the Lady Sybil. Come immediately. _She frowned, left it to Mr Maroon the duty porter to lock up, and made her way across town.

* * *

Hans Ruijterman was in a high place. This had disorientated him somewhat, as he recalled having traded fire with an IRA sniper to force his head down and keep him occupied, while Mr Holtack got the old lady out of trouble and a snatch-squad was being assembled to rush the house front and back and get him. Then the bomb had gone off – he recalled the beginnings of a blast – and everything had faded out for a second.

And then he was _here_, skidding on the high metal-sheeted dome of a building, trying desperately to retain his balance and hold onto his rifle. There had been a darkening sky above him, and a city of some sort spread out around him. Spread out like a starfish, he had slowed and controlled his slide, noting with relief that there was some sort of a balustrade, or a parapet, down there, If he could reach it, he could work his way around, to see if he could find a _verdamte _access door, or skylight, or hatch, or whatever, that allowed access to the inside of the building. There must be one.

He noted names and initials carved or scratched into the bronze all around him. Some looked very old and faded, others relatively new with the bronze still gleaming dully.

_Jocasta Wiggs, Tump House. _

_Millie Mountjoy-Standish, Tump House._

_Ruth N'Kweze, Raven House. _("_A Zulu name?"_ thought Ruijterman.)

_Pteppicimon XXVIII, Viper House. _

_Bernard Selachii, Wigblock House._

_Odd, _thought Ruijterman, making his way to the parapet. A narrow walkway ran in between the balustrade and the dome. He gratefully let his boots rest on flat ground, then surveyed the city. Wherever he was, it wasn't Londonderry. He searched for the Mars Bars he carried in one of his equipment pouches.

_Take stock. Eat some chocolate. Work out how to get down from here. _

* * *

Across the city, a Policeman and an Assassin were looking at a print-out from HEX.

"So one of them materialized on the dome of Small Gods." Lord Downey said, thoughtfully. "If they aren't used to edificeering, there's a chance he might still be there, wondering how to get down."

"Or he could have fallen off, sir" Captain Carrot added. "Or be in danger of falling off."

"I would suggest we handle this one, Captain." Downey said. "The Watch has many virtues, but you are not edificeers. My people are. I shall direct a team."

"Very good, sir." Carrot agreed.

Downey spoke into the omniscope that Ponder Stibbons had loaned him.

"This may save a lot of time." he remarked. "Calling Miss Smith-Rhodes. Are you there, Miss Smith-Rhodes?"

"Sir, I em here". Johanna said, promptly. Her voice echoed from the magic mirror.

"What is your current location?"

"I em on Bitwesh Street with a petrol of Guild members. We were following a report thet a stranger of the sort we seek hes been in the vicinity."

"I'm allocating you a fresh order. Leave that, for the moment. We have a positive indication that one of the strangers may be trapped on the dome of Small Gods. Move to the temple with all speed and investigate. If necessary, be prepared to climb up and talk the man into surrender, then lead him down to ground level. Bring him…" Downey hesitated. "Bring him to Pseudopolis Yard. I will be there."

. "Messege understood. Will comply. Smith-Rhodes out."

"She'll get him down." Downey said, confidently. "If not, she'll track him."

"And she's a Special Constable." Carrot reminded him, with seeming innocence. "That should keep Mr Vimes happy."

"Indeed, Captain."

* * *

The Watch Igor was fully conscious, although the starfish-thing was still firmly attached to his face. A Watch guard was in the room with loaded crossbows, as were Doctor Lawn and a group of four or five interested Igors.

Igorina was welcomed into the group – these were, to an Igor, the new generation of younger Igors, who had no prejudice against women in the profession. Indeed, they respected her work in restoring damaged Assassins to full health, after any of a wide variety of occupational hazards had laid them low. Being an Igor clan member working with the Assassins offered a very wide variety of exciting and interesting injuries to repair: student training was exacting, and it was a rare week that went past without at least one replacement, resection or reattachment.**(3)**

She took stock. Igor seemed calm enough, and was breathing through his nose. He couldn't eat or drink, but an intravenuous drip was feeding liquid and nutrients into his body via a canula. He was conscious but couldn't talk, although he had requested a pen and writing pad. She read his notes so far on his interesting condition.

_The thing is alive but not thentient. I have been unable to make contact with dithcernable intelligenthe._**(4)**_ It has intherted a long tube down through my oesophagus into my stomach. Thomething passed down that Tube and into my stomach. I can feel it changing shape in there. It is growing. Thith ith interesting!_

The next few entries charted the growth over time of the thing in his stomach.

_I believe the entity attached to my face is analogous to a placenta. It is linked to what I thhall call the Egge. When its work is done and it hath passed nutrients to the Egge, it will die and fall off of its own accord. Thome fathial surgery may be necessary to restore me. Take itth Bodie and preserve it in Formaldehyde for future study. _

_You ask: if it is an Egge in my Stomach, how will the Creature get out? _

_I anthwer: in the same way all Creatures nurtured in Egges are born. __They break the Egge. __Pleathe hath standing By the following bodily organs which may need to be Replathed in me: One Stomach. One set Upper Intethtines. One Liver. One Sette each of Abdominal Obliqwue muscles, external and internal. One set Rectus Abdominus muscles. One thette Transverse Abdominus muscles. I fear those which are currently Installed will be dethtroyed beyond Repair. _

_I will also need external Skinne, with Omphalous , and the the services of Igorina to perfom cosmetic exterior Thurgery. _

"You've got it, Igor!" she said, determined.

_As for the Thingge, when it emerges from the Egge, seek to capture it. I recommend a Winchester jar with removeable Bottom held over the abdomen. Allow it to Emerge into the jar, and replace Bottom with all speed. Deal with caution, as I fear it will have Defences available. Capture it First, then rebuild me. _

_It is imperative the Thingge be captured. I have thought long and Hard on what nature of a Thnigge it be, and I believe it to be a new Queene which, if allowed free, will buildde a new Hive. This cannot be allowed. _

_On the Nature of the Hive: I have thought of thisse too. I believe the original Hive was grievously wounded, but not killed, by the Wizards and the Undead. In the intervening years, it gathered its Strength and rebuilt what it could. Part of the new growth sought to make new workers and Drones after the manner of a Beehive. Those Egges we destroyed. Part mutated into Newer and Deadlier defensive Drones. Those we fought in the Hive. The old Quene, knowing herself to be near Deathhe, put all her energy into creating the means to lay one specialle Egge. She hath laid this in me. Capture or Kille it. _

Igorina put down the notes.

"Have these been copied for the advice of the Palace?" she demanded. "The Watch and the Guild could use this information too. And Professor Stibbons at the university. In fact. " she paused, "A Wizard could be useful here, too…"

* * *

Sergeant Dafydd Williams probably had the easiest landing of all in Discworld.

Sergeants are hard to panic or make fearful. Generally they've seen it all, done it themselves, and then some. Williams had fifteen years' service and was a good sergeant.

He walked cautiously down the nearly unlit street he found himself in, noting as Holtack had done the absence of electric street lighting, road signs of any description, or traffic lights. Looking up, he also noted the complete absence of TV aerials or telephone wires. He was pretty sure even the most rural parts of Ireland were up to speed, these days, with electricity and telephones.

And then he looked at the layout of the street around him. There was a section of derelict mediaeval city wall, long since plundered for free stone to build houses with. Elsewhere, the look of the buildings made him think of old Caernarfon, around the Castle. Nothing new seemed to have been put up here since about 1700. A thought struck him. He rummaged in his pocket for his Emergency Compass, something he carried as a back-up, in case an officer who thought he could read a map ever got them lost.

He frowned. A standard Army –issue map-reading compass was doing some bloody odd things. Instead of locking onto Magnetic North, the needle was swinging in wide lazy circles, as if unsure of where it was.

_No magnetic field? _he wondered. _What sort of place is this? _

He'd read somewhere that the Earth's magnetic field faltered and reversed direction every sixty thousand years or so, and we were over-due for a change. He wondered if this was happening.

Then he heard distant singing, and followed the noise.

It was a pub, or at least a tavern. The pub-sign showed a familiar arrangement of feathers, with the name

_The Prince of Llamedos_

underneath.

He shrugged. He was now near enough to hear the _language_ the singing was in. Then he grinned and walked confidently forwards.

Another thing about sergeants is that they tend to fall on their feet. They're _good _at it.

He wondered how he was going to get a drink here. He suspected the money he was carrying might be wrong. But he'd deal with that when he came to it.

A distant voce was leading a chorus.

_Oggy-oggy-oggy!_

_Oi! Oi! Oi!_

_Oggy-oggy-oggy!_

_Oi! Oi! Oi!_

_Oggy!_

_Oi!_

_Oggy!_

_Oi!_

_Oggy-oggy-oggy!_

_Oi! Oi! Oi!_

_Southwelians, _he thought. Williams was from Capel Curig in North Wales. _Well, you can't have everything. _

As he walked in, a red-faced comedian was on stage, leading community singing with a giant leek.

_Steady, hold ye, Pant-Y-Girdl, _

_Fight ye naughty foe's incursions_

_And presumptions on your person,_

_With Llamedosian steel!_

Well, the _tune_ was familiar, at least_…_ Williams walked into a crowded pub, nodded at a few people, and waited at the back, taking everything in. There were uniforms in here, he saw, but none that he recognised. In fact, they had a Napoleonic feel to them, as if the wearers had stepped out of history. They were even red coats with white cross-over straps.

People nudged each other as they spotted the oddly dressed newcomer. Then two very familiarly shaped uniforms walked unhurriedly over to him, radiating familiar authority. They each wore three stripes on their arms.

"I see you is also a sergeant, or seemingly so" said one, in a strong Welsh accent.

"I am that, aye!" agreed Williams.

"But no uniform I recognise."

Williams knew he was being tested.

The second Sergeant spoke up.

"Tell me about your Rupert. What sort of a horror story have you got, _bech_?"

"The boy will do. I've had him for just over a year and he shows promise. You have to train them up, see, so they causes no damage and might even learn a few skills along the way!"

The sergeant laughed. Williams felt he was part of the way along to acceptance.

"How many men do you command?"

"Thirty-two. I've got some promising Corporals and a private Fusilier who used to be a sergeant. I had to tell him sharp the other day that at this moment he isn't a sergeant no more and I'd thank him for not behaving like one. But you know how it is. The stripes go on, they come off, they go back up again."

"That is how it is, alright." The first Sergeant said, reflectively. "You is a true Sergeant."

He held out a hand.

"Elwyn Owen. Sergeant."

"Dafydd Williams. Likewise".

"Will you have a drink with us?"

"Gladly. But I arrived here unexpectedly and I'm not sure my money's valid."

"Then talk to us about it. Always glad to help a Sergeant in bother, mun!"

And so Sergeant Williams arrived in Ankh-Morpork.

As they watched the _macsboes_**(5)** perform – Williams was informed that this was a combination of Druidism and clowning, they taught it at the Fools' Guild branch back in Pant-y-Girdl, it was very bad luck not to laugh, see, however painful and excruciating it got – Williams leant back, reflected that the beer wasn't half bad, and worse things could have happened, Far worse. With the help of the local branch of the Sergeants' Freemasonry, he'd make sense of this place and maybe get back home.

* * *

Johanna sent one of her squad of Assassins up to climb the Temple of Blind Io, directly opposite Small Gods. From there, he could get a clear view of the dome of Small Gods, and observe. The rest waited, silent, in the shadow of the street. After a while, the observer returned.

"One man, in the strange uniform, with a _gonne_" he reported. "Just sitting there, eating something. No sign he's about to get up and move."

She nodded.

"I want two of you to stey here and observe. The rest of us will climb from the Cemetery side. We will hev to free-climb, but it is not difficult, We hev ell done this a hundred times es students. I will go first. The others will beck me up if it is needed."

Ruijterman heard faint scrabbling noises in the distance, but put it down to birds and other night animals. He'd disturbed a pigeon colony in his own movements, and his uniform showed evidence of this.

_Better clean up when I can. Sergeant Williams has put men on a charge for less. _

And then he heard the voice. He jumped. He hadn't heard or seen anyone approach him, but it sounded damn close.

" _Soldier." _It said. A woman's voice. _"We mean you no herm. Will you listen to us?"_

Something about her accent…

"I'm listening" he said. Will you show yourself?"

Johanna drew breath, startled. _His accent…_

"It would help if I knew your name." she said. "I'm Johanna."

"Ik het Hans Ruijterman" he said, following an intuition.

There was an audible discharge of breath. Then the woman spoke again, in good honest Afrikaans this time.

"By the sound of you, _mijnheer Ruijterman_, you're Rhodesian?"

"Got it in one, _jongfrau_!" he replied.

"Talk to me." she requested. "What brings a man from the mother country to the dome of Small Gods?"

"This is a church? I meant no disrespect…"

"None intended! And a thousand people have been here before you. We all leave our initials here! but how did you get here?"

"I wish I knew, miss. One minute I'm at street level fighting a battle, then the bomb explodes, and then I'm nearly three hundred feet up in a strange city."

"That's what the others said, more or less."

"The others?" Hope surged in Ruijterman.

"We've got your officer and one of your comrades so far. They are being looked after and are safe. We know others arrived here. We're actively searching for them."

Then she paused again, and schoolmistress instincts, combined with something primevally female, kicked in.

"Is that _chocolate_ I can smell?" The phrase "I hope you brought enough for everybody" danced unsaid in the air.

Ruijterman fumbled in his pouch, unaware that he was being tracked by at least two crossbows. He brought out another Mars Bar.

"Would you like one?" he asked, hopefully.

Johanna stepped into sight, holding her crossbow carefully. Seeing Ruijterman was not holding his gonne – it was propped upright nest to him – she relaxed, pointed the weapon away from him, and stepped forward. He saw a slightly built freckled redhead who moved with poise and confidence. She recognised a time-served fighting soldier in his thirties, definitely no raw recruit.

Thank you" she said, politely, accepting the chocolate bar. Chocolate and a shared language cemented diplomacy and opened the way for talks.

"I like this!" she said, savouring the taste. Cheap chocolate on the outside, like the worst the Guild of Confectioners created… but oh, that melting toffee in the middle…

"So where are you from?" he asked. "You sound as if you're from Natal."

"I am!" she said, not knowing, yet, that he meant a different Natal on a different planet. "Piemburg".

"Pietermauritzberg" he said, using its full name. "I was stationed at the barracks there for a while."

"Built in colonial times." she said, meaning when Rimwards Howondaland had been an Ankh-Morporkian colony. "Nothing's been done to it since."

They finished their Mars Bars.

"So how do I get down, miss?"

"You've never edificeered before? Climbed up the outside, I mean."

"Not on buildings, no".

"There's a maintenance door somewhere. That leads to a flight of internal stairs. It means going through the Temple, but that can't be helped. Coming?"

Ruijterman slung his rifle over his shoulder. He wasn't surprised when other black-clad forms fell in with them, all displaying the same easy confidence as the red-haired woman. He went with them. There was really no alternative, and nobody had shown any inclination to do him harm. In fact, they seemed quite friendly. He tried Afrikaans on one of the others, and got a perplexed shrug in reply.

"I'm sorry" the woman said. "Only the two of us here speak Vondalaans. The rest speak Morporkian".

Ruijterman's head jerked in surprise.

* * *

**(1) **The one who, despite evidence to the contrary, diagnosed Pteppic as dead in _**Pyramids**_, and then came up with the Walrus theory of disease. The Guild dispensed with his services in the normal way, and this ex-doctor now washes lab equipment at the Lady Sybil.

**(2) **Emmanuelle had _offered_ her services, just to show willing, but T'Malia was still dealing with the fall-out from the experimental module in _Seduction and Honey-Trap Techniques_ that she had taught, disastrously, to senior girls. Yes, she conceded, that was a valid intelligence-gathering ploy for the _right sort_ of female Assassin, as well as an unparalleled means of getting close to the client while his guard was down. But, Emmanuelle, you did not have to deal with the letters of complaint from parents. I did. And then there were those two senior girls who did the maths and decided they'd have a far more profitable and less hazardous career if they joined the Seamstresses' Guild. Fortunately Mrs Palm did the sensible thing and sent them straight back to us, but you would not _believe_ how angry parents can get. So in the circumstances, very regrettably, et c. Although we may consider re-instating the module as an advanced post-graduate course where we would be pleased for you to teach your, ah, _unique _personal skills.

**(3) **Indeed, all Assassins were now required to carry Igor donor cards to say they had no objection, following death or irreparable bodily disruption, to serviceable parts being used by the nearest Igor. As they say, what goes around, comes around, or _Noblesse Oblige_.

**(4) **Because some habits are hard to break, even in writing.

**(5) **Max Boyce is an occasionally funny professional Welshman from South Wales, whose act involves singing, telling funny stories, and making gestures with a giant inflatable leek. I couldn't resist inventing a Llamedosian school of Clowncraft that turns out a ritual jester called a _macsboes. _


	16. knowledge Dispels Fear

_**Slipping Between Worlds 16**_

_I still see, when Hollywood comes to film this story (Ha!) , the role of Jocasta Wiggs being taken by Miranda Otto, who of course was Eowyn in "Lord of the Rings"._

_**The Watch House, Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork.**_

Ponder Stibbons was almost out on his feet. For the preceding three nights he had been working on very little sleep and a lot of adrenaline. He had discovered two young Wizards turning the Roundworld Project into a sort of video game, literally playing God with the lives of people, real living people, on the Roundworld. After disciplining the errant juniors, he, Ridcully and HEX had conferred, and decided the only morally and ethically correct thing to do was to wind back time to before the game had begun, and allow the people who had been manipulated into a _gonne-_fight and death to live again, and this time take their own chances. This had taken time and effort and he had worried that this alone had introduced a note of instability into the Project. HEX had assured him that the people involved might have confused memories of having been killed, but would dismiss them as bad dreams, brought about by the necessarily stressful existence they were living.

Then Vetinari had dumped a reading-list on him, with the express request that he plough his way through a selection of Roundworld science-fiction novels and look for the common theme linking them. Ponder hoped this had rather been overtaken by recent events, but suspected that Vetinari, a man who always had at least three reasons for every action he took, would remind him at exactly the time when he thought the matter was gone and forgotten.

So he'd taken the trouble to speed-read through Piers Anthony's _Adept of Proton_ trilogy. He'd made his choice on the basis of the rather cute naked woman/robot on the cover of the first volume. The he'd been hooked and entranced by the developing tale. The books were set on Proton, a world dominated by science, technology and manufacturing. The human population had so ruined this world in its everlasting quest for valuable minerals that the planet's atmosphere was poisoned and life coulds only be sustained in sealed domes containing artificial habitats. The world was run by a minority of Citizens, its free people, and an army of Serfs, essentially slaves who were owned by the citizens. Yet people queued up to sell themselves as Serfs because twenty years servitude on Proton carried a massive financial pay-off at the end that made the freed Serf rich enough to set up for life on some other planet.

Co-existing with Proton, in the same space but a different dimension, was its parellel world Phaze, a beautiful planet, unspoilt by mining or industry, where technology was basic and magic ruled. Most people on Proton were totally unaware Phaze existed, but a special few were able to cross between the worlds at will.

Ponder had flushed red at some inventively creative dirty bits involving sex between men and robots – or rather androids in female form. _That's another way of describing the sort of Golem a scientific civilization might build, _he thought, excitedly. Then there had been inventive sex between a man and a lady unicorn – who in the Phaze world were were-creatures capable of being either human or unicorn. There were even werewolves, depicted here as a proud and noble people.

Ponder had been enchanted at the descriptions of Phaze magic and its magic-users, who had ways of casting spells that were unknown to Unseen University – but, Ponder realised, theoretically possible. _How can a people living on a world with absolutely no magic write so imaginatively and realistically about it? _Ponder wondered, giving it nine out of ten._ The Wizards, or Adepts, live in a world where they are in shifting alliances and perpetual warfare with each other and want to keep the secrets of magic to themselves. They tolerate no competition and retreat to their own castles and towers. Has this man Piers Anthony ever crossed to this Discworld and seen our wizards? He is so spot-on! Must ask HEX if some of this magic is theoretically possible. I see no reason not. The idea of singing your spells, for instance, the power being in the rhyme. And using enchanted cord to bind people, to delineate permitted places… _

In the third book, the Adept Blue becomes powerful in both worlds, and as the secret of Phaze becomes known to unscrupulous Citizens, thwarts their attempts to break through the barrier and take it for their own, so as to replace the world they ruined and to have a new source of raw material to plunder.

Ponder had put the boks down, puzzled as to what moral the Patrician intended him to draw, and being short of time, had asked HEX to consult Roundworld's data-banks and produce synopses of the other three trilogies on the set reading list.

And then, he had been a terrified witness to the destruction of the Hive, and a participant in the terrible fight against the flying things that had sought to stop them and had killed a Watchman.

And as if that wasn't enough, he had heard the explosion of a _gonne_ – twice - at the University, and had been called to witness the unconscious stranger the Librarian had sheepishly carried out of the Library, along with a pack of cigarettes of un-Discly manufacture, a strange device called a _cigarette lighter_, and a Gonne.

"Ooook!" the librarian, slightly deafened, had said, in some shock.

"I know." Ponder had said, sympathetically. "Some people can get _aggressive_ if you ask them to put their cigarette out, don't they know this is a Library?"

And then Ridcully had fired the thing again. Ponder's ears were still ringing.

He had accompanied the unresisting Hughes back to the Yard, sympathetically talking to him about uncontentious things, like "what's your name? Where are you from? Do you know where you are?" and had gleaned he was talking to Paul "Boy" Hughes, aged twenty, from a place called Mostyn, that was in a county called Flintshire, in a place called _Wales_ that sounded very much like Llamedos.

He had then sat in on Hughes' search and preliminary interrogation at the Yard, occasionally asked to pass judgement on the use and purpose of some of the artefacts the man carried with him. Vimes had eventually accepted he was talking to a private soldier with little knowledge of the bigger picture, except for his assertion that "most Ruperts are idiots, sir. The higher they get the dimmer they become"

Vimes had grinned appreciatively, then given him his cigarettes and lighter back, as well as a couple of chocolate bars he had been carrying in one of his pouches. The rest of his possessions had been carefully itemised by Sergeant Pessimal, who showed the prisoner the list, as per regs, assured him they would be kept safely, and will you sign here?

Vimes had added

"No offence, but you look and smell as if you desperately need a bath and the services of a good laundress. I'll see if a man's free later to escort you to the shower, and we'll see what we can do about those clothes".

"None taken, sir" Hughes had assured him. "Did I tell you about the Shirt Factory?"

Then he had told, and Vimes had nodded in sympathy.

"We had to put up with something similar when we did our policing action in Borogravia the other year. Now I've got something to compare it to, that does sound a little like your Northern Ireland. Two near-neighbours who hate each other's guts who've been beating the shit out of each other for so long that _somebody_ had to step in to try to call a halt to it. And we got precious little thanks for it, as I recall."

Their eyes met in sympathy and recognition, and Vimes added

"I'm putting you in a cell, for now, but the door's going to be left unlocked. You _will_ find guards outside if you go too far, though. For your security as well as ours. If time allows, we'll try to find you some other clothes to wear and we'll get your uniform cleaned and laundered for you."

_Which offers us a chance to thoroughly search __unfamiliar thick heavy clothing at our leisure, for any hidden pockets and anything the first search might have missed. Guild of Tailors might be interested in some of the techniques used to make it. Those unfamiliar fasteners – what did he call them? __**Velcro**__? And that thing called a __**zip fastener**__? In return, the lad –and he's hardly more than a lad – gets his clothes cleaned. Fair exchange. _

"Thank you, sir!" said Hughes, saluting. Vimes returned the salute in his usual sloppy way, and bade a duty Watchman take him to a cell.

And then the call had come to pull in the important one, the officer. Ponder had tried to discuss things with Carrot and Lord Downey as best he could, but had found himself dropping off. They had let him doze, recognising he was worn out.

And then Jocasta Wiggs was skipping along, anxious and unheeded, among a phalanx of Watchmen who were not going to let this sort of desperate villain evade them in a hurry.

Vimes, a look of triumphant glee on his face, said

"Donald, give Professor Stibbons a shake, would you? He's needed. This one's their officer."

Holtack had been marched into the interrogation room. The scarfaced chief of police took a look at the milling watchmen, selected a couple, and said "You. You. Stay behind. The rest of you – thank you for your work, gentlemen, but it isn't over yet. Back on the beat, please. There are fo – there are more of these people to bring in yet. The job's not over till it's done."

Vimes nodded at the fat depot-stallion sergeant.

"Put it over there, Fred, would you? Alongside the other one. Thank you!"

Fred Colon hastened to lay Holtack's rifle alongside Hughes'.

_So he's got two of us, then. Wonder who the other one is? _

"Might I ask which of my men you've got in custody, sir?" Holtack asked, politely.

"You may. But I'm keeping that to myself for now. I will tell you he's being fairly and decently treated. Even though he could have killed the Librarian."

Holtack studied the Army webbing and pouches on a second table. Even though equipment is standard, every soldier worthy of the title stamps his individual mark on it with time.**(1)**

_Fairly recent issue. Bottom of the belt slightly malformed. No scratches on the metalwork. Hughes, perhaps, but then again it could be Ruijterman, who arrived later with the platoon._

Just stand there. On the yellow line." Vimes ordered, curtly, The other men took their places alongside him; the man in black with the look of a kindly country vicar; the younger one, about thirty, in a dull green-grey robe, _in John Lennon round glasses, looks like a lab boffin of some kind._ And the other policeman, in a similar uniform, looking like one of Cromwell's cavalry officers with red hair cropped back to the skull. Big man, six foot six, looks very handy. Captain's pips on his shoulders, I notice. But Vimes wears crossed batons over a laurel wreath. Back home, that's part of a General's rank badge. What does that say about him?

And then there was another sort of sergeant. _The mild-looking little man with the fussy moustache, late forties. The sort of man you find in the Paymaster's office, doing complex financial calculations to the exact penny. The sort of senior clerk who looks after the office while the Adjutant's away, and whose job involves defusing an armed and dangerous Alice Band. He gets his stripes as a honorific, a courtesy almost, to go with his technical and professional knowledge. But he knows his power, and a word to Alice or even the Colonel at the right time and in the right way, and anyone who annoys him gets posted to the Falkland Islands in winter. A man who is very, very, good at assessing the small fine details that others overlook. And he's in the same Watch uniform. _

Vimes looked, crossly, somewhere behind Holtack.

"Miss Wiggs, I don't recall giving you permission to stay."

"I've been with him for most of the night, Sir Samuel." said Jocasta. "Besides, _my_ commanding officer, so to speak, is in this room and I need to report to him!"

Vimes sighed. "Sometimes I wonder if you're taking advantage, Jocasta. Just because you're one of two or three Assassins I can stand being in the same room with for long periods of time doesn't entitle you."

"We _should_ hear from her, sir." Carrot urged. "Her report could be very valuable. Besides, it's a courtesy to Lord Downey."

"OK" said Vimes. "A.E., take notes, two copies, would you? One for us, one for Donald. Oh, and march our guest here out of the room till she's done, would you? I don't want him listening to other peoples' evidence and tailoring his to fit."

Holtack was marched out into the corridor in between two crossbow-armed Watchmen, whose body language spoke of a healthy regard for the capacities of their prisoner. Both had safety-catches off and fingers on the trigger. Holtack sighed and decided to go with the flow.

"Going anywhere nice on holiday this year?" he asked his guard.

Meanwhile, the sergeant-clerk nodded, and lifted his pencil.

Jocasta then made her report, right through from edificeering on the rooftop over Monkey Street to the final arrest at Café Necros.

Downey, Vimes and Carrot asked questions at intervals.

"That fits with other reports we've had, sir. And with the reports earlier from the Assassins' Guild. From Miss Band and her pupils. " Carrot said.

Vimes nodded.

"Good. What do you think, Donald? Oh, and… I see you're apparently drumming your fingers on the table. I can't read Assassin finger-code, but I know it when I see it. So let's have everything out in the open and spoken out loud while you're in _my_ headquarters. "

Downey smiled, and did not reply, but cut off the communication. It had simply read _Wait for me downstairs. _

"Absolutely _masterly _work, Jocasta. I cannot fault you at all. Miss Band may have words to say about your going against the specific instruction she gave you, but as the Assassin on the spot you read the situation quite superbly and adapted to a changing situation. You gained his confidence, but did not abuse it, and you persuaded him to give himself up."

"I think he persuaded himself to give himself up, sir." Jocasta said. "I just gave him the information he needed to make a decision. Somebody had to."

"Even so, this merits a commendation from the Guild, I think." Downey said, offering her his hand and quietly relishing Vimes' irritation.

"I'd like to visit him in prison, sir." she said, pressing an advantage. "If Sir Samuel agrees."

"Now you really _are_ pushing it, Jocasta…"

"Look at the advantages, sir" Carrot said. "A friendly face, somebody he could trust, somebody who might be able to get him to open up about anything he doesn't care to tell us now. "

"Hmmm." snorted Vimes. "You didn't do that bloody woman's course in seduction techniques, did you?"

"Madame Deux-Épées? I thought about it, but it was oversubscribed, sir. She's a _very_ popular teacher!"

"I'll bet!" said Vimes. "OK, Jocasta, you've said your piece, Donald's as good as pinned a medal on you, or given you the Golden Dagger as Assassin of the Month, or whatever it is you people do."

Downey coughed.

"The usual honour is a commendation in front of the assembled School, Sir Samuel. And perhaps the Dark Council would be minded to offer a little additional token of the Guild's esteem, like an untaxed gratuity of perhaps fifteen hundred dollars to mark exceptional achievement."

Vimes nodded. To be fair, Jocasta had more than deserved a reward. He couldn't argue with that.

"Anyway, Jocasta, if you'll kindly leave, now, so we can search and question the prisoner. If you see Constable Jolson and Sergeant Angua, send 'em up , would you? On your way out, tell 'em to wheel him back in."

She smiled and left. Coming across the prisoner and escort in the corridor, she relayed Vimes' instruction.

"Good luck" Jocasta said to Holtack, squeezing his hand. "Just tell them what they want to know and don't evade anything, and I'm sure you'll be fine!"

"See you again?" he asked, knowing he'd miss her friendly face. And the fact she was the only person on this planet who so far had not tried to rob, kill, intimidate or imprison him.

"Try to keep me away!" she said.

"If we can be going, miss?" said the escorting Watchman, diffidently.

"OK, gentlemen. Let's go to the Bloody Assizes, shall we?" requested Holtack. He found himself humming the "March to the Guillotine" from Berlioz' _Symphonie Fantastique_.

_Now there's a thought. If quoting Shakespeare at those Clowns was anything to go by, I know so many songs, pieces of music, and stories from home that they don't seem to know here. If I have to stay, I could clean up. No worries about money, then._

* * *

In the quiet of the High Energy Magic Building, HEX rattled and shook as he prepared a printout of one of the lower-priority tasks he'd been assigned. It was addressed to Ponder, and a duty Wizard dutifully collected it when it was finished and put it in the correct pigeonhole. It read:-

_+++The Martian Trilogy, by Kim Stanley Morrison.+++_

_These books are set in the near-future of Roundworld, where the human population is beginning to address the vital problem of getting off "Earth" and colonising other planets.+++ This is admirably in keeping with the correct direction of the Project, and such thinking is to be encouraged+++ Earth's contending nation-states collaborate to send an initial colonisation party to their nearest neighbour in space, the barren and lifeless planet Mars+++Initially, they send two hundred of their best and brightest people, chosen from a variety of disciplines after rigorous selection.+++ The first colonists succeed in establishing a foothold and secure initial landing-sites and sustainable habitats for further colonists from Earth.+++ But Earth is overpopulated, polluted and depleted of vital commodities.+++ Large corporations see Mars as not a planet to be nurtured but a resouce to be plundered for financial profit.+++It is also seen as overspill for surplus population, the planet not having grasped that birth control is essential for the survival of the race+++ The first colonists see "their" planet being mined and denuded and polluted, just as Earth has been+++ They lead a rebellion and a civil war ensues in which Mars declares independence+++ But vested interests on Earth launch an invasion to recapture the planet and use all means to crush its independence+++ This is seen as a closer and easier option than sending colony ships out of the system altogether to seek for other Earth-like planets to expand onto.+++ The books therefore take a different and more pessimistic course than the route we are seeking to steer Roundworld onto+++_

* * *

In the dark of Hide Park, Powell and Williams spent a fairly comfortable night concealed in deep undergrowth in the woods on the Soake side. Williams, looking over the wall into back gardens on the Soake, had noticed some apparently forgotten blankets hanging on a drying line. They were in useful dull brown and grey colours. Prompted by Powell, he had hopped over the wall and scrounged them. After a supper of bread and cheese, they curled up to sleep, Powell hoping the rain would stay off, and all it needed now was a brew, mun.

"If this is a park, there has got to be a parky. And where there is a parky, there is a hut. And where there is a parky's hut, there's a kettle." mused Williams.

While neither had risen above the rank of Fusilier, they were old soldiers. And old soldiers can make any set of circumstances liveable, even comfortable. Powell grinned.

"You may be on to something there, mun! I noticed there is a lake over there. And some buildings. Ten to one your parky hides in one of them while he is earning his wages. I'll go and take a shufti."

He took his rifle and cautiously moved off. Williams leaned back and got accustomed to the night sounds. Twenty-five minutes later Powell was back.

"You are luvverly, Forty-Seven!" he triumphantly exclaimed. "Tea, coffee, sugar AND biscuits! And a stove to brew it on! Coal-burner, mind, but some of the older training barracks still have them in the Nissen huts. Remember Leek?"

"And if it's raining, we can doss down in the hut!"

"But best be out before daybreak. Too many people, see?"

By mutual consent, they moved their centre of operations to Senior Park-Keeper Robert Flowerdew's**(2) **personal hut, a place other lesser park-keepers were invited to only by invitation, and usually for a critical job performance review. They made themselves at home regardless, lit the stove, and made a brew, in the time-honoured British Army tradition**(3)**. Then they leant back and tried the local cigarettes, just to see what sort of horse-droppings they were stuffed with. Comforts ensured, they sat back and relaxed.

"Wherever the hell we are, they are more civilized than we thought" said Powell, who'd been rummaging. "Dirty books, see. Something called "_Girls, Giggles and Garters". _A whole bloody stack of them!"

They could have asked for nothing more. Tidy, bach.

* * *

Igorina sat up with the Watch Igor, communicating by her speech and his writing.

_It will not be long now, _wrote Igor. _I can feel it weakening on my face. Its life-energy is dwindling. The Egge grows larger. I believe it will hatch tomorrow. Be prepared!_

She looked at the Watch guard, who had been supplemented by two heavily-armed Assassins. Several Igors sat or dozed around the bedside, prepared. Certain things were on ice, within sprinting or at least speed-lurching distance. As requested, a large bell-jar with a detachable bottom that could be securely wired on was standing by. It was going to be a long night. And a longer day.

* * *

HEX carried on writing.

_+++ The Darksword Trilogy, by __Margaret Hicks and Tracey Weiss. +++ In this series, Earth's parellel world is one where technology is basic, but magic rules everything and all people are magic-users to a greater or lesser extent. +++ Very occassionally, a child with no magical ability whatsoever is born, but they are generally detected and killed shortly after birth+++This is partly as a kindness to a misfit, and partly so that the race remains pure and the magi-less one does not spread heir gene+++ The ones who have no magic are called the Dead+++But one such, Jorum, escapes detection, learning to use sleight of hand and conjuring tricks to disguise his lack of magic.+++ Science and technology fascinate him, so when he has a chance to pass through the barrier seperating Magic Earth from Dead Earth (Roundworld) , he gratefully cxrosses.+++Here he finds Roundworld, a planet with absolutely no magic but where science rules.+++ Roundworld is polluted, overcrowded, and has squandered its resources with greed and lack of foresight+++ Jorum convinces the Planet of the Dead of his origins, and they resolve to send an army through the Barrier to conquer the magical planet an make it theirs+++ An Army of the Dead passes through with fearsome weapons and great experience of fighting wars+++ Great bloodshed and suffering ensues+++_

* * *

The sergeants smuggled Williams and his gonne back into their barracks, to the west of the city. Williams noted the proud sign at the gate:-

_Spionkoep Barracks, Ankh-Morpork. _

_Home of:-_

_The Duke of Eorle's First Heavy Infantry Regiment (Hergen Lines)_

_Lord Rust's First of Foot (Gebra Lines)_

_The 23/35__th__ (Llamedosian) Regiment (Isandlhwana Lines). _

"Spionkoep? That was a battle in the Boer War, wasn't it?" Williams asked. His escort nodded somberly.

"Aye. The bloody Boors chopped us into mincemeat, mun"

"And I know Isandhlwana." Williams said. "The Zulu War."

"Aye. It is true the Zulus cut us to tiny tiny pieces." agreed Sergeant Owen. "But we held our own at Lawkes' Drain!"

Williams thought he could see the sort of mindset that was at work here. He thought of Dunkirk Barracks, Gallipoli Lines, and Arnhem Lines back home.

"And I bet Hergen was a glorious defeat too. Am I right?"

"Start to finish, mun!" agreed Sergeant Owen.

"An awful place" agreed Sergeant Jones. They were nodded through by the Sergeant of the guard, and turned right towards, Williams was not surprised to note, Isandlhwana Lines.

"And they name the barracks not after the victory at Rorke -_Lawkes'_ Drain, even though it was against all the odds and against overwhelming numbers of enemy. They call it _Isandlhwana Lines_, after a humiliating and avoidable defeat!" Williams noted.

"Well, Lord Eorle's great-grandfather commanded at Isandhlwana." said Owen. "And Lord Rust led the army at Gebra. Funny thing is, nobody seems to know if we won or lost that one!"**(4)**

"Supposed to be a constant reminder to the men about fortitude and sacrifice. Or something." mused Sergeant Owen. "For myself, I tell them it's a constant reminder never to be on the losing side!"

It was after lights-out at the barracks, but sergeants are above such petty things. Williams was, therefore, moved to a darkened room in the Sergeants' Quarters, where he was shown a bed, if and when he needed it; but first, we have a drink and we talk.

He explained to a room full of attentive three-stripers exactly what he perceived had happened. He felt he had no option but to tell the truth, however bizarre, as he was among professional peers who had probably seen a lot of strange things between them. To his surprise, they listened intently and took him wholly seriously.

"Sounds like you are from a different place then, mun!" said Owen, who by consent was spokes-sergeant.

"Not _that_ different, or there would not be a Llamedos on it" said another Sergeant. "Well, a _Wales_"

"I bet it's _magic._" said a third. To Williams' surprise, this wasn't said ironically or as a joke – they seemed to believe in it. At least, the sergeant who had spoken had said "magic" in the same way other people might say "bloody nuisance".

"It's those bloody Wizards. At that bloody University. He story is, mun, they have opened a window to a whole new Roundworld. The way our Discworld might be if it had evolved differently. That, to me, explains why our _Llamedosian _and your _Welsh_ are practically the same. And why we can talk together, if we so wish, in what you call _English _and we call _Saes. Saes _being the language of the Morporkians."

"We call it _Saes_ too. The language of the Saxons." said Williams. Then a thought struck him, and he laughed.

"What's so funny, mun?"

"I'm sorry" Williams said, feeling light-headed. "I commanded a man from Southern Africa. Where the Zulu and Boer Wars happened. You had them too, on this world?"

"In Rimwards Howondaland, aye. Many years ago.".

"I was betting myself that if he crossed over to your world with me, he is almost certainly going to meet somebody he can talk to in Afrikaans. It would not surprise me in the least!"

"Afri-what? The Boors speak _Vondalaans. _But then, that is probably the same thing."

Conversation and detailed comparison established that Williams' _South Africa_ and Discworld's _Rimwards Howondaland_ were in all probability as alike as Wales and Llamedos.

A newly arrived sergeant asked, curiously

"That is a gonne? There is a panic on in the city. Strange people have been appearing from nowhere, foreigners who know nothing about this world. The Watch are _everywhere,_ and they're working directly alongside the assassins, looking for these strangers. Now that is a new thing. Commander Vimes and Lord Downey co-operating and putting their differences aside!"

Do the stories say if these …gonnes…. have been fired?" Williams asked. "Activated, I mean." He explained further. "They make a loud noise and a little flame, and expel a projectile that will kill if it hits you."

"Like hand-held baby cannon, you mean? Like the new Artillery have? _Duw,_ those things scare me!"

"_Exactly_ like hand-held baby cannon." Williams said, nodding. "Have they been fired?" He would find out by _who_, he decided, and bollock them severely if the discharge had been negligient. On Earth or not, the good name of Seven Platoon was still the good name of Seven Platoon, and by extension that of its platoon sergeant.

"An Assassin I know told me there was an incident at the Library with a gonne." said the new Sergeant. "Nobody hurt, though. But down in the Shades, one of your people killed two Thieves who were trying to rob him. Commander Vimes has both of them in custody at the Yard. He runs the Watch, see. The police force."

Williams nodded.

"We'll try to get names and descriptions to you in the morning as they're your men." Owen promised. "We'll also see about talking to the bloody wizards, if it's this Roundworld place of theirs that you came from. If they brought you here, they can get you home again, hopefully before an AWOL becomes desertion! There's an old sergeant, Alf Nobbs, works as a bledlow at the university. He owes me a favour, and I'll talk to him. For now, we will lock up that weapon – it screams "danger!" at me – and you can have a be here, long as you need it. We will see about getting you a uniform too, so you fit in! Do not worry about the Ruperts here, most of them are foggy**(5) **and they won't notice. We will give you a few quick lessons so that you fit in, and then you can eat in the Mess like everyone else. Oh, and there's a shower room at the end of the corridor. We will fix you up with towels!"

"Thank you. _Diolch y'n fawr_. said Williams, sincerely. He would shower, and sleep sound tonight, and tomorrow was going to be a new day.

* * *

**(1) **Comedian Spike Milligan proved this point with a hilarious set of sketches showing how his mates in the Royal Artillery made their kit, with wear, so wholly individual that he could tell a man by the way he wore his boots, gaiters or shorts.

**(2) **See my story Nature Studies, where Flowerdew is taught how to differentiate between Apes and mere an annoyed Gorilla who shares some character traits with the Librarian. Yes, he's that sort of man.

**(3) **Stewed bright red and with frightening amounts of sugar in it.

**(4) For events at Gebra: s**ee _**Jingo **_by Terry Pratchett. "Spionkoep" was a battle in the Boer War on Roundworld where the British, under the command of the Lord Rust-like general Redvers Buller, were thoroughly trounced by the Boers. I have invented both a Zulu War and a Boor War on the Discworld as part of the back-story of "Rimwards Howondaland". It is said, as a "by the way" in _**Jingo**_, that Sybil Ramkin's grandfather, finding himself short of sworn enemies to fight at home, led a military expedition to Howondaland and ensured a lot of swearing and ample enemies for life. I have dealt with how this may have come about in my (stalled) story _**Ripping Yarn. **_It is also true that the British Army tends to name its barracks and depots after glorious defeats, rather than victories. This may say something about the (senior) British military mind.

**(5) Foggy – **thick, wet, and dim


	17. A Scholarly Interlude

_**Slipping Between Worlds 17**_

_A little scholarly interlude…. apologies, all I can manage after a tough day at work! But it keeps the ball rolling and maybe answers a few awkward questions..._

_**The Roundworld Project:**_

_**Access Level: Restricted to accredited researchers only.**_

_**Category: Linguistics and Philology.**_

_**Subject: Parellel Evolution of Roundworld and Discworld languages. **_

_**Authors:**__**- Professor Kenneth Stuart Simon Tolkeane, (Egregious Professor of Language and Linguistics at Unseen University).**_

_**Doctor Fritz-Albrecht Graumunchen (Head of Languages and Linguistics, Assassins' Guild School) **_

_The principal and as yet unresolved mystery about language, possibly the most useful tool any sentient race can evolve, is __**exactly**__ that: where did it begin and how did it evolve? _

_The best guess on the Discworld is that the human race, and closely related vampires and werewolves, began from a central origin on the Central Continent and spread to all points over the next few hundreds of thousands of years. We know, as the older vampire families open their family records for research, that vampires co-evolved with humanity. Pioneering work by my colleague Professor Laurens van der Post__**(1)**__, the Resident Professor of Anthropology and Howondalandian Studies, has conclusively proven that were-creatures were a far later stage in the evolution of humanity, and in human form would have adopted the pre-existing languages of other civilizations around them. (How far the howls of wolves and the communication systems of animals constitute language is a separate unresolved question). _

_It is thought that similar considerations govern the linguistic evolution of dwarfs and trolls, who appear to have a far more coherent "central language" than humans, and dialects that while pronounced, are mutually intelligible. The mystery as to why trolldom and dwarfdom should each have one mutually intelligible language, whilst humans have evolved thousands, is also a separate question in philology and not applicable here. _

_The rationale for the evolution of language is well-known, even to laymen._

_Language __**communicates. **_

_It communicates factual information – _

"_This is how to carve a wheel"_

_It communicate abstract ideas – _

"_We must first placate the God of Wheels"_

_It evolved swearing, the demotic-_

"_AAAAGH! I have just {{bloody-well} put this {{ flaming}} chisel into my hand!"_

_It communicates, or seeks to, across the sexes:-_

"_When you've stopped messing around with those silly tools, you can get started on repainting the food-preparation area of the cave, like I asked you to!"_

"_Stop {{bloody well}} nagging, woman, this wheel- idea could revolutionise transport! _

"_But it isn't putting food on the cooking-fire, is it, so get out there and kill a mammoth, or something!" _

_And so on. _

_The theory runs that these early proto-languages used to convey this sort of information spread with the human race as it migrated across the Disc, and divided and fragmented into branch after branch across the world as the race spread. We know this as reconstructions suggest all human Disc languages are related at some deep-down level, presuming a common origin. The range of Trolls is a relatively smaller one delimited by climate and habitable territory, meaning they are not found outside the Central Continent. (They are not renowned seafarers, for obvious reasons). So the Troll language has had little opportunity to diverge in the way human language has. _

_We also note that the dominant role of Lore and {{not- religion}}, particularly the work of Grags down the ages, practically obliges Dwarfs to retain a common language. As with Trolls, they are mainly to be found in a range largely limited to the Central Continent, although a thriving colony is to be found on Fourecks, and Rimwards Howondaland invited Dwarfs to settle there to manage the country's gold and diamond mining industries. _

_But how can this be translated to Roundworld? _

_We may begin from an observation out of physiognomy. _

_Marvellous and subtle though the interplay of throat, larynx, vocal chords, tongue, teeth and lips is, that allows humans to modulate expelled air into speech, it still only permits a finite selection of sounds. _

_Therefore this limited sound- palate will inevitably suggest repetition of the same basic vocal sounds – phonemes - in all humans, regardless of their origin on the Disc or the Roundworld. The identical physiognomy of the Roundworld human (we know this from accessing their medical texts and researches) makes this a given. Roundworld science is also a long way ahead of us in studying the chemistry and workings of the brain when it comes to processing language. Such experiments as we have been able to reproduce here show complete symmetry in Discworld brains – i.e., same human brain, same way of processing speech. _

_Roundworld civilizations also evolved in a very strikingly parallel way. Take the British, for instance. Originally a Celtic people speaking a tongue that was an ancestor of Irish Gaelic and Welsh (Hergenian and Llamedosian,) their language was successively overlaid by the Romans (Latatians), by the savage Angles, Saxons and Vikings (Hublanders), by the French (Quirmians), all of whom left their imprint on its grammar and vocabulary. An island race, the British then went out into the world and carved out an Empire, importing worlds and phrases from every land they subjugated. As a land of seaports, of which London was the largest and richest, all languages of the world could be heard on its streets and all coloured the language. As Empire receded, the world began to come to them and new immigrants from all corners of the world are contributing to the richness of spoken English even now._

_This of course almost exactly parallels the history and linguistic development of Ankh-Morpork and our own Morporkian language – the mechanism involved is remarkably similar. _

_Similar "parallel-development" hypotheses could be used to describe the splitting of root-Latatian into daughter-languages over two thousand years – Quirmian, Toledan, Brindisian, Genuan, and Latatolian. On Discworld, Latin – note the similarity – gave birth to French, Spanish/Portuguese, Italian, Creole, Rumanian, and Catalan. The one-for-one correspondences betweem Quirmain – French; Toledan - Spanish/Portuguese; Brindisian – Italian, and so on, are still extraordinary, but explainable as that of parallel development given the same root origin and societal/cultural/economic pressures._

_The development of the Überwaldean group of languages, of which Morporkian is a relative, is also salutary. Growing cabbages of various sizes, making cheese, cultivating tulips and building windmills in a flat depressing landscape is a speciality of the North German races on Roundworld – the Dutch, Belgians and Flemish. Here, the corresponding role is taken by the Sto peoples, especially Sto Kerrig. _

_Sro Kerrig appears ideally suited to have driven out its "best" and most adventurous, possibly even warlike, people out of the country - out of sheer boredom if nothing else. This was also true of the Roundworld area called Holland, who along with the bright and fiery colour Orange migrated to places like South Africa, taking their language with them. Orange, both the colour and the associated missionary religion of Protestant Christianity, went to Northern Ireland along with a Dutch king, with consequences still ringing in that benighted place even today. Those left behind in Sto Kerrig, as has been noted, are a pacifistically-inclined people who grow new strains of tulip and advance windmill technology perfectly happily by day, whilst content to smoke interesting herbal preparations in coffee-shops by evening. We see this at the Assassins' Guild, which hads turned out, in the past ten years, fourteen Full Blacks of Boor ancestry, with as many again coming through the school. In the same time-period, the Guild has graduated ONE Sto Kerrigian, with three more puipls of the same nationality in school. _

_The Dutch who went to South Africa founded and fought bloody wars against all comers to maintain the Boer states, and their Dutch became Afrikaans, just as our Boors over the years turned Kerrigian into their own Vondalaans language. Again the parallel is striking but ultimately explicable. _

_We may also see he imilarites between Roundworld Wales and our own Llamedos - in both cases a largely grey mountainous nation with higher than average rainfall, a Bardic tradition, and industries ranging from sheep-farming to heavy steelworking and coalmining, as well as a steady export trade in ministers of religion and Army sergeants. _

_Of course, the ultimate reason for all this is the deepest and possibly the best-kept secret of the Roundworld project. _

_Right at the beginning, the then Dean of Unseen University poked his entire hand into the as-yet-unformed stuff of the Roundworld Project, "just to see what would happen". It is believed the Dean compounded his error by a misguided spell of the "Let there be Light" sort._**(2)**

_The long-term effect of this, we believe, was that the Roundworld was seeded to prefer the development of human life. This explains the total lack of trolls, dwarfs, vampires and werewolves, except as dimly-remembered creatures, which in Roundworld legend used to share a planet with Men but which, quite unaccountably, are long-gone now. _

_It may also explain exactly why Roundworld human language evolved to such a peak of similarity with our own - and the associated phenomena for which we have as yet no explanation, why all its alphabets and written orthographies exactly correspond with ours, be they Latatian, Cyriollic, Ephebian, Klatchian, Golem, or any of the Agatean languages…_

**Signed:-**

Professor K.S.S. Tolkeane (Unseen)

Doctor Fritz-Albrecht Graumunchen (Assassins' Guild School)

* * *

**(1) **See my story _**Whys and Weres**_

**(2) **Really true. See the first** "Science of Discworld" **book by Terry Pratchett and others.


	18. The Last Post

_**Slipping Between Worlds 18**_

_Sad but necessary duty, in the left leg (sinister) of the trousers of Time. _

_This was hard to write. The twin dangers were being flippant about a grim reality forced upon many, many people in the last thirty years. (and ongoing today, in the Blair-Bush wars in Afghanistan) The other pole was getting mawkish or maudlin. As one who attended several Church Parades that had that extra edge of solemnity, I hope I have evaded both extremes. This chapter needed to be written. I've seen the events described here, in one way of another and from one angle or another, (as a soldier and as a funeral director) and it needed to be written. It has black humour, as anything involving the British Army should, but it will read, hopefully, like a tribute. Back to the Discworld next chapter! _

_**Hoxton, London, evening. **_

Denise Holtack scowled at her drawing-board. For some reason, she was finding it hard to concentrate on her work that Friday evening. She had deliberately turned off the radio so as to avoid the wrong sort of distractions, and anyway Friday was a rubbish night for television.

Denise was a woman who would never see her twenties again, and she tended to fret slightly about that. She was technically single: she had a regular-ish lover, certainly, but one whose work took them away for most of the year. The whole going-out –on-weekend-nights thing was beginning to bore her, aged thirty-one, and she was glad the BBC pitch was giving her a reason to stay indoors and keep herself busy working.

Even so, she was feeling that headachy just-before-the-thunderstorm feeling, like an oppressive weight bearing down on her. It hadn't helped her mood that her parents had written her another of their joint letters, in which a pointedly unspoken theme had been the ongoing absence of a son-in-law, and by extension, grandchildren. She really needed another letter from Phil. Her brother's irregular mailings, all about the absurdities and the pomposities and the pragmatics of everyday Army life, made her laugh, as did his descriptions of the officers and men and the people he encountered out on the streets in _that place. _

_Just let him grow up and get married! _she prayed, hopefully._ Then they'll set about **him** for the grandchildren they desperately want, and leave me alone! _

And he wrote about… that lovely maddening _I could punch them so hard!_ person… completely guilelessly and honestly and openly. It was warming to see somebody Denise was, if she was honest with herself, in love with, reflected through the understanding of her brother.

_And he still has no clue! One day we'll have to let him into our secret…_

And then the phone rang.

Denise took it breathlessly. Although it was somebody she really wanted to see, the grave tone of the voice implied bad news.

"You're coming over? You're flying? You've got a seventy-two and you'll be at Gatwick at eleven? See you shortly after!"

She wondered about putting the TV on anyway, but didn't. It would, she thought with complete prescience, only be bad news.

* * *

_**The Shirt Factory, Londonderry, late Friday night. **_

Colonel Otway-Williams was only forty-three. But he felt much, much, older than that as he contemplated the disaster that had recalled him from a local leave.

_I'll have to write letters. Attend as many of the funerals as I can, personally. Nobody ever prepares you for these things. You have to work them out for yourself and trust and pray that you're doing and saying the right thing. _

He noticed his wife wasn't there. She'd accompanied him back to the squalor of the Shirt Factory. She had _insisted._

"Where did Miranda go?" he asked, in the diffident tones of a man whose wife is seeing the full unedifying squalor of the makeshift barracks for the first time.

"She went to the Padre's office." Major Wynne-Parry Jones advised him, "She believes that's where she can best offer her services. She considered some of the men might prefer to unburden to a woman listener who's outside the rank structure."

Otway-Williams nodded in deep humility. _Trust Miranda. At a moment like this the Colonel's lady realises her duty is to the Regiment. _

"Six dead." The Colonel repeated. "And up to thirty more with non-threatening injuries. Damn it, Glyn, those barriers should have been set up a _long_ way further back from that bomb!"

"We simply weren't anticipating one that big, sir. That was three or four times the usual size."

"Sorry, Glyn. No criticism implied. You were right. You were following standard procedure. Apparently even that offensively cheerful sailor was stunned into silence?"

"First time out as an EOD, and he gets two burst ear-drums. He'll heal!"

"And wherever we put the barriers, it would not have stopped young Philip."

He paused and reflected. He suddenly looked older than his years again.

"Who will now be forever young. Who's squaring his kit away?"

"Alice, sir. She insisted. She took that new girl of hers with her, so she knows how to do it properly."

"Good. It is the Adjutant's job, after all. And Sergeant Williams? Damn, what a wicked crying _waste_!"

"Regimental Sergeant-Major Matthews is dealing with his kit and personal effects, sir. RSM's prerogative!"

Otway-Williams nodded.

"And I assume Corporal Greenberg is tidying up the lockers of the four dead men." he said. "Which reminds me. When he's done, and _only_ when he's done, send Greenberg to me, would you? And when Alice is finished I need a word with her too. Thank you, Glyn."

"And messages of sympathy and condolence are coming in from other Regiments, sir."

"Thank the Colonels very much indeed, Glyn. Remind them we're having Church Parade in the yard as usual on Sunday, if they want to send representatives. The more voices the better, I think. Even if some of them are Scottish. Get the Padre to prepare an Order of Service and run off plenty of copies. English and Welsh."

* * *

"And _this _is where he _slept_? Oh my God!"

Alice Band pushed the filing cabinet well aside, exposing Holtack's informal private space. She let the very young subaltern's giddiness pass, but frowned disapprovingly all the same.

"He scrounged up more space for himself than the Colonel gets" Alice said, drily. "But you could carve something like that on his tombstone." She went quiet, the immediacy of it hitting her like a punch. Then she gathered herself.

"You'd better learn how to do this. It won't be the last time for either of us!" She nodded at Second Lieutenant Rebecca Trent, newly-arrived from Camberley, and the company clerk Private Siân Nash.

"Officially, we're here to pack his issue kit up and return it to Stores, so we can tick all the right boxes on the discharge paperwork. Whatever he was wearing out there we write off as "destroyed due to enemy action". Those are magic worlds, Lieutenant. The Army has in the past used them to write off things ranging from whole Divisions right down to…"

To her surprise, she found her mouth refused to let her finish the sentence.

"Informally" she said, after a couple of deep calming breaths, "we are also accounting for his personal possessions so as to release them to his family. But we will not be such complete uncaring idiots as to return _everything_, oh no."

Rebecca's mouth pursed in an "O" of surprise.

_She can't be a __**complete**__ khaki bimbo, or they'd never have passed her out as a second lieutenant. God, did I look so green eight years ago when I passed out from Camberley? And she's too pretty and pleasant. That causes problems in an Officers' Mess full of sex-starved rock-apes. Did she take it in when I gave her the "let me be your friendly big sister who is concerned for your welfare" talk? "Don't get too close to __**any**__ of them, and for God's sake have your sex with civilians a long way away from barracks!"_

"Let me explain. A bundle of letters from his parents, his sister, old schoolfriends. Those go onto the "return to family" pile. A half-finished letter to his sister…"

Alice read with interest for a page or so. The corners of her mouth twisted into a tight little smile. Then she put the pad with the bundled letters.

"Return to family. I suspect any letters written to be posted in the event of his not coming back from a patrol were lodged with the Padre, who will be forwarding them on, but you never know.

"The next thing is, or are, bank statements and letters. Young officers and money difficulties go together. As you know, Lieutenant Trent, _you_ had to take out a loan to buy ceremonial and Mess uniforms that Army doesn't pay for. They don't come cheap and it's highly probable Lieutenant Holtack was still paying his off. On top of that, most lieutenants have the financial acumen of the average ant. They make _students_ look prudent. Now these _should_ go back to the family. But I know his parents are not that well off and would be appalled at the thought of his dying with debts. Rather than burden the parents, I intend to pass these to the Regimental Benevolent Fund. This is one of the things it's _for,_ after all.

"Next, we look at what he was reading. Philip was slightly more intellectual than the rest, so I expect… ah yes, _novels. _These can go back to the family. _The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists… _George McDonald-Fraser's _McAuslan_ series; some of the _Flashmans_; Solzhenitsyn's _Ivan Denisovich_? That surprises me. What we should be looking for, before the family sees it, is the _other_ sort of reading material. Dirty books. _Wank-mags._ As Private Nash will tell you, there's usually a whole pornographic bookshop's worth circulating around a place like this. If we find any of it here, we bin it."

Alice was searching through the filing-cabinet that Holtack had used as a locker. Hearing the cynical tones of the words she was speaking, Rebecca was taken aback to look over and see Captain Band's face was damp with tears. Then she saw Private Nash shaking her head furiously. _Pretend you haven't noticed. _

"What a waste!" said Alice, savagely. "What a filthy, bloody, disgusting, sodding, _waste_!"

* * *

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

Corporal Raphael Greenberg marched into the Colonel's office and saluted. His company commander Captain Endion-Williams was there, looking grave and tired.

"I'm glad you're back. I'm sorry to have recalled you from your local leave. I would only do that in the gravest of circumstances."

"I heard just after Temple, sir. The Sachersons were sympathetic and said I _must_ return. Mr Weissmann was kind enough to drive me back here."

"Good" said the colonel.

"I've discussed things with Captain Endion-Williams. He agrees with me that as senior surviving NCO in Seven Platoon, after the tragic deaths of Lieutenant Holtack and Sergeant Williams, you are now its platoon sergeant. In the circumstances, please excuse me for not saying congratulations. You will also step in as its acting platoon commander until we can get a new subaltern in place, which could be months away." The Colonel handed over several sets of sergeants' stripes.

"Promotion effective today, so get them up as soon as. Also, Seven Platoon is for the moment finished as a fighting unit. Your first job is to lead its remnants back home to base depot, where you will have the pick of the best new recruits coming out of basic training. You will get the new men embedded, and do what you can to rebuild the spirit that made Seven the platoon it was. After a blow like this it won't come overnight, but do what you can to get everyone up to the mark. And if the new officer, when you get him, is a little bit green and new – well, you wouldn't be a Sergeant if you didn't know how to deal with that. You fly home on Sunday after Church Parade. You may be fit to rejoin the Battalion before the end of the tour. Oh, and you'll need to give thought to burial parties to go to funerals. If you're stuck with the formalities, the Depot RSM will help out. Try to get all the men on at least one funeral duty each. I'll be flying back to attend, where I can, and so will the Captain here. That's all, Sergeant. Good luck, and dismiss."

"Sir!"

The new Sergeant Greenberg marched out.

Tim Endion-Williams and Colonel Otway-Williams looked at each other. Tim broke the expectant silence.

"He's the right man, sir. He'll keep them confined to barracks for the next day or two – I mean, we just can't have angry men going out there with loaded guns and a "getting-even" mood. He'll work them so they won't have the time or leisure to get angry, but he'll let them have space to grieve. With your permission, I'd also like to advance Lance-Corporal Williams to fill the corporal's vacancy."

"Darkie Williams? Sound man. I'm sure there's a fusilier who'll benefit from a stripe, too."

* * *

Denise Holtack went out to the local Asian shop for a pint of milk and a packet of cigarettes. She saw a _**Stop Press!**_ sub-headline on the cover of the Evening Standard: _Huge car-bomb in Northern Ireland: six soldiers dead. _She bought a copy. Although the details were being with-held until families had been contacted, she had a sudden sick feeling. After a moment's thought, she drove to Euston Station, where the station newsagents sold newspapers from everywhere on rail lines whose trains terminated at Euston. She was able to pick up the _**North Wales Daily Press**_ and the _**Wrexham Evening Leader**_.

_Local regiment in bomb tragedy… six Welsh families will grieve... Fusiliers will not release names until next of kin informed. _

The sense of dread and loss intensified.

* * *

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

The Colonel nodded. His wife Miranda was in the office with him, regarding her with big sympathetic eyes.

"You've done what was necessary for Philip?" he asked Alice, gently.

"Yes, sir."

He took in the puffy eyes and recently tear-streaked face.

"Now look here, Alice." he said. "I'm giving you a seventy-two. God knows, you need it. You've been running yourself into the ground lately, and a dead Adjutant is no use to me. This damn-fool notion of yours that for a woman to prove herself the equal of a man, she's got to work ten times harder."

"But I'm needed _here_, sir?"

Miranda Otway-Williams shook her head.

"What my husband is trying to say is that he can spare you for a few days. You need it!"

"That's why you got Becky Trent to train up." the Colonel said. "She's nowhere near your equal and probably won't be for a year or two, but she's competent. She can hold the fort for a few days. There's the leave-pass, there's an air ticket to London – leaves in an hour, be on it or be on a charge for disobedience. While you're over there, there's a little matter you can attend to."

"You're a friend of Philip Holtack's sister," Miranda said, gently. "Lovely girl, a bit spiky and combative, but vivacious! She certainly made an impact when Philip brought her to that Ladies' Night at the Mess! You remember, Alice? You were there, of course!"

Alice _did_ remember. She'd been discreet. Denise had been discreet. But what might _other people_ have noticed?

_To hell with it. I made the decision when I was clearing out his things. I'm leaving the Army. I never really fitted in, anyway, not in this boys' club. _

Miranda went on, more urgently. Alice respected the Colonel's wife. She was also unquestioningly in command of the parallel Battalion – she knew all the wives and children and the significant girlfriends, and could even make a decent stab at birthdays. Her husband's rank made her First Among Equals, with only Mrs Matthews, the RSM's wife, approaching her in terms of informal power and prestige.

"Look, she's lost her brother. I'd like her to hear bad news from a friend, especially one who know Philip. The alternative is some anonymous bod from the Army Welfare Service knocking on her door at one in the morning, or her getting it from the papers or TV."

"I've spoken to the PR Bureau." the Colonel said.

"We can assume you'll have told Miss Holtack by midnight. By then all the relatives will have been contacted, and we can allow the Press to publish the names. It might help the poor girl in dealing with her parents if you were there. This isn't an _order,_ Alice…"

"I understand, sir. I'll go."

"And find time to see your own parents too, Alice. Just because your father's a bishop doesn't confer him or you with extra divine protection. He talks to the Padre about you, I'm told. I get the feeling he'd like a more down-to-earth way of keeping in touch with you than prayer."

"Sir!"

_I'll ring Dennie. Tell her I'm coming over. But will she hate me because of the bad news that's travelling with me? _

* * *

The Colonel took a telephone call from the General Officer Commanding shortly afterwards. The General expressed sympathy and understanding, asked about the circumstances of the tragedy, and reflectively said

"Do you know, John, that lad of yours should go up for a medal of some sort. Posthumous, of course, but it strikes me that he died doing what the Press would call a bloody noble and gallant and selfless thing, trying to save that old lady from the bomb. I take it she was blown to atoms as well? Shame, but never mind. Do you think the George Cross is going too far? George Medal, perhaps? And one for the Sergeant as well? Either way it's good press for the Army and we tend not to get very much out of Ireland. Tell you what, you write something good and I'll endorse it. Let me have the citation when you get time to write it!"

"I need a big drink." the colonel said to his wife after putting the phone down.

"But _not _on your own!" Miranda Otway-Williams said, firmly.

* * *

After an uneventful flight to London, Alice Band took a taxi to Hoxton. It would cost, but she could charge it to the Army.

Recognising her uniform, the taxi-driver said

"Bloody horrible business in Ireland, wasn't it, ma'am? If you ask me…"

She held up a hand, restraining "Well, I'm _not_!" with difficulty.

"Please" she said, adjusting herself to the sights of a city that was, broadly speaking, at peace, "I've just come from there. I'm here to break the news to one of the families."

That shut him up, and she travelled on in reflective silence.

And finally she was falling through the front door of Dennie's flat.

The last mask finally slipped and Alice Band burst into uncontrollable sobbing tears.

"_Oh, Allie!" _Denise said, sympathetically. "You come on in, girl, and get it out of your system!" She led her friend in and closed the door behind her.

They had first met at a Ladies' Night at the Officers' Mess.

For some time, insecure at turning thirty, insecure at their parents' hints that grandchildren might be nice, Denise, she had complained to her brother at the utter lack of suitable lovers for a sophisticated girl-about-town, pushing thirty-one.

It had vaguely surprised her that her brother had taken her words seriously, and invited her to the Mess Night as his guest. It also irritated her that her brother had successfully missed what should have been patently bleeding obvious about her. Had he not seen the copies of _Diva_ magazine about her flat, when he'd stayed there on a home leave? Had she not hinted? Had he not _noticed_?

Yet she was there, in her best dress, feeling vaguely flattered at the attention and not finding it terribly difficult to fend off a series of clumsy, hopeless or just ill-advised passes from her brother's fellow officers. Despite herself, she'd found herself, a feminist, socialist and sometime student militant, enjoying the unjust perks and unearned privileges of the military upper classes. And it was all going on her brother's mess account, which was nice…

Towards the end of the night, the terrifically important lady, Miranda something, the one all the other wives and girlfriends were deferring to, had asked her where she was staying. This foxed Denise: she realised she was just too drunk enough to drive, and anyway, she'd had this vague expectation she could just roll herself up in a blanket on her brother's bedroom floor.

By the looks and indrawn breaths, she realised this was not the correct answer.

"Girl thinks this is a student hall of residence or something." somebody muttered.

Miranda shook her head, kindly. "Didn't Philip tell you?" she asked. "Strictly no women in male officers' quarters. Not even sisters!"

She looked past Phil, who was dying the death with embarrassment, and then the tall gorgeous lady officer, Alice, the one she'd been having a drink and a laugh with, spoke up.

"There's a spare bed in the women officers' quarters" she said, helpfully. "Nobody would object to Miss Holtack staying over there?"

"Wonderful idea, Alice!" the colonel said, approving. "It solves a problem admirably! "

"I agree!" said Miranda. "John, shall we be making our way home now?"

This was the signal for the night to end, and Denise found herself walking through the barracks with Alice. She felt a growing tension and exciement. Could there be something more here than she'd allowed herself to expect?

"We're home!" Alice said, unlocking a door. "And do you know, we're the only two women in residence tonight?"

After a bit of uncomfortable _other-things-on-our-minds_ small-talk, the first tentative kiss made Denise pleased she'd taken up her brother's offer of a night out. The rest of the night made her ecstatically glad.

"We'll have to tell him." they decided, much later in the night.

"But if he hasn't noticed it in you yet, he must be foggier than I thought!" Alice objected. "What happens if he can't keep the secret? My career's over then!"

This was something Denise hadn't contemplated.

"You cannot come out? It's illegal in the Army? That's bloody-well-_mediaeval_!"

"It's Army law." Alice sighed. "I tell myself that one day I'm leaving. I'd quite like to train as a teacher. You know, be the good-looking token bitch in some exclusive boarding school. The one all the boys lech over but also _fear_. Or a co-ed school. Oh, I know it'd be _absolutely_ forbidden to touch the girls, but knowing some of them secretly lust after me as well would be so good for my ego!"

They had laughed, and kissed again.

And Alice had been a regular guest at Denise's London address ever after.

Tonight, her visit was saturated in sadness. Denise felt a dead numb emptiness.

"So let me get this straight." she said.

"What will be buried, at enormous time and expense and with full military honours, will be a coffin containing a couple of sandbags full of Northern Irish rubble that might – just _might_ – contain a couple of atoms of my poor brother? This would be funny if it wasn't so sad!"**(1)**

Denise laughed and cried at the same time, Alice holding her close.

_The first person to laugh at a sick sad joke like that would have been Philip. But he's gone. I'll never see him again. _

"Allie. We never told him! About _us_!"

"I know" Alice whispered.

And they cried together.

"I'm leaving soon. I can't stand much more of it." Alice whispered.

"Live here with me. We'll work something out, hun." Denise said.

And so the dreadful night passed into a cold, chilly, weekend.

* * *

**(1) **This has been the practice for a long time, where not enough of a body has been recovered to actually fill a coffin and give it the authentic weight of a complete human corpse. The author can respectfully testify to his having ensured the lid is _very_ securely screwed down, lest the family attempt to sneak a final look at their relative. The kind thing is to speak discreetly to a sensible, strong, relative, preferably one with Services, police or ambulance experience, and explain that there in nothing in the coffin a loving relative could recognise, and opening it up would only cause needless grief. You don't need to go into details, just deter people from asking?


	19. Interrogation

_**Slipping Between Worlds 19**_

_**Hoxton, London.**_

Denise Holtack spent a disturbed night's sleep. She envied Alice, who next to her was sleeping the deep trance of the truly exhausted. Denise kept slipping into disturbing dreams in which her brother was seemingly still alive, but in deep trouble, in some far and foreign place.

She saw him fighting for his life in some dark Hellish alley in some sort of Dickensian London stew. Then she saw him wandering the streets of a dirty squalid city, even filthier and more evil-smelling than modern London, in fact looking the sort of way she might have imagined London looking three centuries ago, at the time of the Great Fire.

Then she fell asleep again, reassured in the knowledge he had found some sort of friend and guide. _People do after they die, don't they? Especially if they die suddenly and violently. The people at the Spiritualist Church say the unattended soul wanders for a while in a sort of Hell until a guide comes to draw them to the Light…_

And then Philip was standing in front of some sort of tribunal, with people in old-time military uniforms flanking him to left and right, and four people sitting at a desk or a table, regarding him with varying degrees of sympathy or lack of. She couldn't hear, but the really nasty looking scar-faced one appeared to be asking questions, which Phil was answering. Occasionally the man in black with the look of a schoolteacher or country parson asked something. The other two, the one in the grey-green hooded monastic robe, the intellectual-looking type with specs, and the huge red-haired officer (who knocked a last despairing spark off Denise's vestigial heterosexuality) were examining items of his kit as he surrendered them.

She was amused to see the flanking guards were a giantess and a dwarf respectively, which reminded her of something she had once read in her father's more _secret _books, about Freemasonry and its rituals.

_-And thou, Jubelum, did he tell you the Word? _

_And the Dwarf replied_

_-I cut off his testicles and he was mute. I cut off his penis and he was mute. He did not tell me the Word._

_-And thou, Jubelo, did he tell you the Word?_

_And the Giant replied_

_-I beat him and tortured him, but he would not reveal the Word._

_-We tormented and vexed his inner spirit, Master, but he would not reveal the Word._

_-A fanatic, then, said the goat-headed Master, sorrowfully. It is better that he is dead. _

She watched for a while, vaguely relieved that nothing appeared to be being cut off and no beating appeared to be going on. But _tormenting and vexing the inner spirit? _She tried to pass on strength and resolution to him, but wasn't sure if it was getting there.

Then she awoke again, looked enviously at a dead-to-the-world Alice, and reflected that the ancient Egyptians had this tradition that the soul of the dead was judged not by one God but by a committee of Gods, each of whom would quiz the deceased according to their own specialisation. Had she been given a glimpse of something like that? _But then, reincarnation applied. So it isn't Final Judgement, more like examination on the basis of coursework. _The thought warmed her. That her brother, in some sense, lived on and might be coming back. Somewhere. At last, Denise fell into true sleep, still worried by the glimpse of her brother being interrogated, and by the sensed presence, that of a very powerful mind taking the form of an austere hawk-nosed Machiavelli. _Phil has to meet him yet. And he decides. But thin, austere, black hair, goatee beard, skullcap. Isn't the skullcap meant to hide the vestigial horns? That's a form the…. Other One... takes when he's in the world, surely?_

But she still slept.

_**Ankh-Morpork. Pseudopolis Yard. Middle night. **_

"Precious? Go and stand next to him and _loom_, would you?" Scarface instructed.

Possibly the largest woman Holtack had ever met came to stand to his right and slightly behind him. Holtack nodded. He knew, from possibly the most horrible and diabolical course his officer training had subjected him to, broadly what sort of things were about to start happening. He steeled himself. It would not be pleasant, but there were ways of coping with that. And a cell to look forward to afterwards.

"Lieutenant, you will begin by emptying your pockets and passing the contents to Sergeant Littlebottom, who is on your left…"

Holtack glanced to his left. _Huh? _

"Down _here_!" a weary and resigned voice said, from about diaphragm level.

He looked down. It had been a _female_ voice, but…

…he saw a bearded face underneath a helmet. A chainmail suit, and leather and more steel underneath it. He – she? – carried a large axe, bladed on one side, but a reverse swing would bring a wicked clubbed sledgehammer into play. _I'd be like garlic. Sliced or pressed. My choice._

He began emptying pouches and pockets, passing the contents to the dwarf, who looked at them interestingly and passed them onto the desk.

"Sir, if I may advise, those are magazines. For the rifle – the _gonne. _Handle them with care as the rounds are deadly!"

"No, you may _not_ advise, and yes, I already know what these are. From the last time one of _these_ was loose in the city."

Vimes had prised a round out from the magazine and was looking at it with interest, turning the gleaming brass casing around in his fingers. He tapped the base. Holtack winced.

"Sir, I really would _not_ do that. The round cap in the base is the primer that ignites the round. Hit it too heavily and it will go off uncontrollably."

Lord Downey ducked back, having made a line-of-sight from the round to his chest.

"Sir Samuel? I would take that advice. Our guest knows the most about the capabilities of these weapons." He said, hurriedly. Downey had also been there to witness the previous Gonne and what it could do.

Vimes nodded. He passed the magazines back to Cheery.

"Look after those, would you? And… what do we have _here_?"

_Damn. _The giantess had politely but firmly taken over patting him down. She had found the roll of bank-notes in his pocket. She handed them to Vimes, who passed them down the table to the dapper little sergeant-clerk.

_If they're like coppers down the ages, then that's the last I'll see of __**that**__… it'll be in the police benevolent fund in no seconds nothing. _

"Count 'em up, A.E., and list them on the sheet, would you?" requested Vimes. "Just out of interest, how exactly did you come to have a substantial amount of our money on you if you've only, as you claim, been in this city for a short time?"

The loaded question hung in the air. Holtack shrugged.

_He's already spoken to Jocasta. Who was by her own account watching me ever since I landed here. He wants to see if my story matches. _

"Some rather unsavoury characters tried to mug me. I was able to turn the tables on them. I reasoned I was going to need local money to survive in this place so I took theirs. Or, perhaps more accurately, what they might have taken from other people."

He added, after a pause

"You have to keep the money in circulation, sir. Basic economics. And money talks. I was hoping it could persuade people to talk to me about your city."

"Yes. You turned the tables on them. That neatly understates it. We have two bodies in the mortuary, both killed in a way I hoped I'd never see again in this city. And two or three more who now know better than to mess with people dressed like you. Care to go back to the beginning, and explain precisely how and why you came to be here?"

"Bit of a tall ask, sir, since I'm not certain myself. I just know I ought to be dead, by rights. I was rather hoping the boffin over here might have a few ideas?"

He indicated Ponder Stibbons, who sighed.

"We have a few theories, yes, but at present no hard evidence" he said. "The more you can tell us, though, the better."

Holtack began telling his story, hampered by having to explain Northern Ireland1**(1) **to his interrogators. How it all began with four separate states on two islands…

"Ah Angua. Look, this could take some time. Lug that new _flipping chart_ over here, would you? And the pens. Thank you." said Vimes.

Angua took an opportunity to assess Holtack as she carried the flip-chart over. It was a new innovation by Leonard of Quirm, touted as the ideal accessory to the busy office or lecture-theatre. Leonard called it the _one-shotte blackboard and Easelle, only white and on large sheetes of disposable paper in a handy to use Padde that Flyppes Over._

The pens were also a product of his genius, employing a reservoir of ink soaked into a sponge inside a hollow wooden shaft, with a porous nib connected to the sponge, allowing the ink to seep out and be applied in a controlled way, like a paintbrush. Her called them _feltte-typped eternal paintbrushes consisting of ink-soaked Sponge inside a hollow wooded handle. (in Redde, Black, Blue Green and Yellow). _

Holtack and Angua regarded each other for a moment or two.

He thought _Here's another class of sergeant. Early thirties, female, scrubs up nicely, might even have a husband and kids at home and Christ help them if they step out of line. But on the job she is singleminded and deadly and will be even more implacable than an angry male sergeant. Women like this often end up on security or regimental police details and often make very good dog-handlers. She could walk into a kennel full of Rottweilers, and within three seconds they'd all know which bitch is dominant in the pack. But not unsympathetic and a good friend to people she likes and cares for._

She thought

_He smells wrong. He doesn't belong on this world. And while he'll kill when he has to he's not a psychopath or a joy-killer. He's a killer, yes, but not a murderer. At bottom just a boy, far from home. And although he's hiding it, he's nervous._

"In your own time, Lieutenant." requested Vimes.

"Sir." Holtack took up the felt-tip pens. _Wooden bodies. They haven't developed plastics yet. _

His two immediate guards stood back to allow him to use the flip-chart. Flipping over the last used page – something about _Traffic laws and statutes of the city of Ankh-Morpork – _he sketched out a rough map, calling the homely blobby shapes into mind that were so much a part of his mental furniture, of Britain and Ireland.

"As I was saying, sir. Originally four civilizations on two islands. England, Wales, Scotland. And Ireland. The English, being most numerous, progressively conquered and dominated the other three. My Wales went first, although a separate language and culture survives. That was eight hundred years ago. Scotland lasted another five hundred years. The border was not fixed and depending on who was winning the wars, it could be up here or down here. This meant the border peoples became a lawless set of clans and tribes who were answerable to nobody.

"When England ran out of kings in 1603 – the old queen died without a heir – the king of Scotland was asked whether he could clear his diary and take the job on. So Scotland and England united. Which left the problem of ehat to do with those warring criminal clans living on a border that suddenly wasn't there any more.

"King James – James 1st of England, James VI of Scotland - decided to send an Army in, round them up and deport them. This served two purposes. It pacified the old border region, and it meant that the deported families could be offered new land if they swore oaths to maintain it for the King of Great Britain.

"They were deported _here" _(Holtack indicated the top right-hand corner of Ireland) "with the intention of securing the country for the British crown by transplanting a colony of loyal natives. They were followed by further plantations of English and Scottish people to take and civilize Ireland for the crown."

"But people surely _already_ lived in Ireland, lieutenant?" asked the kindly schoolmaster, who Holtack now knew was called Lord Downey.

"And that was the problem with plantation, sir. The Irish natives, who were dispossessed and driven off land they'd formerly owned to make way for the settlers, developed a sense of grievance and resentment about it. It did not help that the ethnic and cultural gap was compounded by the settlers and the natives being of two different religious traditions. While most of the rest of the British Isles had converted to the Protestant religious doctrine, the Irish kept to the older Roman Catholic Christian doctrine. Catholicism was viewed as both a potential enemy and as an inferior form of religion. The following couple of hundred years were dominated by British attempts to dispossess Catholic Irish people, who were treated as second-class people in their own country, hardly any better than serfs and peasants. While the British did not create two crippling famines, they did little to alleviate them, and the Catholic population was effectively halved by famine, disease and emigration. Famine was seen as a way of clearing land for re-use by loyal Protestants, in fact: God-given. There were several Catholic rebellions which were all put down brutally, and which only served to reinforce the view that the natives were hostile and ungrateful and could not be trusted.

"After Great Britain's global position was fatally weakened by two crippling wars, one in South Africa and one a global conflict, the Irish fought for and gained partial independence."

Holtack drew a new wiggly line on the map that segregated most of Ireland from its top right-hand corner.

"Most _plantation _occurred here, in this relatively small area nearest to Scotland." he said. "The population was dominantly Protestant and Loyalist, and these six counties were allowed to remain part of Great Britain in accordance with the wishes of the majority. But enough of a Catholic Irish minority remained here for there to be an ongoing problem. The Unionist majority persisted in treating them like second-class people, and this generated new resentments that blew up into civil war a little over fifteen years ago. When the civilian police force could not cope any more - and the police is 95% Protestant and Unionist, so depending on your opinion, either hopelessly unrepresentative or hopelessly corrupted – the British Army was sent in to support the police in maintaining law and order and civil rule. Which is how I was posted there. Myself and thirty thousand others."

"An army. Thirty thousand strong. How many people serve in your country's army, Lieutenant?"

Holtack relaxed. This was hardly confidential. The Russians could read it in the British papers.

"Three hundred thousand in the standing army, sir. As many again in reservists. Another quarter-million in the Navy and Air Force".2**(2)**

"Great Gods! How many people _live_ in your country?" demanded Vimes.

"Fifty million, sir… did I say anything wrong?"

"No… nothing." _Fifty million? In one country? That's twice the human population of the disc! _

Ponder Stibbons, despite his tiredness, sat up straight. He was now beginning to realise what the Patrician had seen, and worried about, first. And the unifying link running through the books on his reading-list.

"An… er… _airforce_, Lieutenant?" Downey inquired.

"Yes, sir. Military aircraft designed for a variety of purposes. Don't you have them on this world?"

"Things that fly? Yes, we have those…" Downey thought of broomsticks and magic carpets. He strongly suspected their guest meant something more potent and capable of delivering truly devastating weapons.

"..but I fear, not to _quite_ the same level of development as I suspect you have on your world."

Ponder changed the subject. This was possibly best dealt with in detail by the Patrician.

"And something happened during your _tour of duty_?" he prompted, fairly certain of the answer he was going to get.

"Yes. My last memory was of a bloody enormous bomb going off, while I was trying to rein in some batty old woman with her bags in a shopping trolley, who'd somehow popped up _inside _the security cordon, right on top of the bomb. We'd seen her a lot in places where she had no right to be and couldn't possibly have entered without alerting the guards. But she always seemed to disappear again. I was sure she could answer a _lot _of odd questions if we could succeed in lifting her."

Stibbons and Vimes looked at each other. _That was a detail in all the other reports! _

"She's been seen here, too. Two of my officers reported a sighting earlier on. And for reasons I won't yet bore you with, if ever, we're keen to get hold of that shopping trolley. That ties into other odd things that have been happening here."

Vimes looked at Holtack.

"So you ended up here. With a _gonne_. And you ended up killing people. OK, we can possibly write off the deaths as necessary and reasonable self-defence, but the very fact you came here with a _gonne_ and used it makes this a matter for the Patrician. He does not like or permit _gonnes_ on our streets. Hell's Bells, after the last time_, I_ do not want _gonnes_ on our streets. So I'm arresting you for possession and use of a banned weapon. Which I have to warn you this might mean the death penalty."

Holtack sighed. Bad things always seemed to happen to him at weekends. _You cheat death twice in Ireland and three or four times on this Discworld. But there's always another one coming up behind it…_

"In which case, sir, I would like a good lawyer. And if that fails, I would like to ask for death by firing squad, not hanging. It's a military prerogative, after all."

_Six of those crossbow bolts should make it a clean quick end. Shame, really. I'd have loved to see Dennie one last time. _

"It's not a foregone conclusion, Lieutenant" Lord Downey said, quickly. "You never know, there might be a last-minute Angel".

"Oh yes." The hitherto silent red-haired officer said. "We can't forget about _angels,_ can we?"

Vimes scowled and grunted something. Then he said:-

"I don't believe you finished turning your pockets out. Let's continue, shall we?"

Holtack sighed. A pile of personal possessions started piling up on the table.

Vimes took his wallet, and opened it.

"Small rectangular cards. Apparently to do with a bank of some kind. Material unidentifiable."

He put down the bank cards and extracted the notes.

"Currency. Issuing nation or nations un-known. There appears to be paper banknotes from two different countries here. One with this rather constipated-looking woman on, but all monarchs look vaguely constipated on the currency, must be their diet. Denominations in something called _pounds._ Also notes in a currency called _punts. _No monarch, just scenic pictures of bridges and rivers."

"We work on a border between two countries" Holtack explained. "British and Irish banknotes circulate as legal tender and exchange at one-to-one. Same with the small coin."

Vimes nodded.

"Small coin. All in pennies and multiples. Some rather nice bulls and sheep and pigs and things on some of them."

"Ireland again. Tribute to an agricultural economy,"

"Iconographs. Family pictures?"

"My parents and sister."

Vimes set them to one side.

"And all these people in uniform?"

"A group photo of officers of the Regiment. I'm in that somewhere."

Vimes looked closely at it. Then his eyebrows shot up. Wordlessly, he passed the photo down the table to Downey, who also studied it, and did a double-take. He handed it back to the boffin.

"Most interesting, Commander. What do you make of it, Mr Stibbons?"

The boffin whistled. "Possibly more evidence for the doppelganger theory3, sir! May I ask…"

"Sorry, Ponder" said Vimes. "Just put it down as an odd coincidence for now. There are more important questions. Such as, what's this?"

He held up the tobacco tin.

"It's an escape kit, sir" Holtack said.

"Not much of one if you pass it over first go! What's in it?"

But Vimes was already unpicking the tape.

"It's designed for desperate circumstances, sir. We were trained to accept that we'd be fighting a defensive action against a far larger enemy who might easily over-run us. In those circumstances, you might end up in scattered groups, or alone, behind enemy lines. The contents of that tin are selected to help with survival or evasion for a few days until you can make your way to safety. You will find water purification tablets, fish-hooks and line, needle and thread, a compass, Bombay matches, and a small-scale map of the part of Germany we would be fighting in, in the event of war. The intent is to escape capture until you reach friendly forces or a place of safety with a sympathetic German ."

Vimes, Carrot and Downey were examining the contents with interest.

"These Lucifers are four-fifths head and one fifth stick!"

"Designed to catch light even in the worst weather, sir. Don't you have anything similar?"

"I'll talk to the alchemists." Downey said. "Very ingenious, Lieutenant!"

"And yet more money. What the Hell are those, Lieutenant? "

"High-denomination West German Marks, sir. And American dollars. In case I need to bribe anyone. Russian soldiers would sell the souls they officially don't possess for Western currency, or just for a bottle of spirits. If I were to be stationed in Arabia, the preferred currency for bribes is gold coin. I'd then be carrying a wad of sovereigns"

Vimes shook his head, and set the escape box to one side. Squinting forward, Holtack thought there was something odd about what the compass needle was doing… or rather wasn't.

"That everything from your pockets?" Vimes asked. "OK. Just to make sure. Get undressed. Hand your clothes to Sergeant Pessimal."

_Now it begins. It's a standard form of humiliation to break down the prisoner's resistance by making him strip in front of female personnel. I'm surprised they haven't hooded me yet. _

He thought back to training…

His class had been taught what to expect in a classroom briefing. They would join a group of RAF pilot trainees, and be dropped off in random groups of two or three in an unknown place. They would then seek to evade recapture, by units who would be combing the area for them, for as long as possible. Then the next part of the test was to resist interrogation – which would be as realistic as the exercise allowed – for up to 48 hours. The purpose was to prepare them for a time in the future when the might have to do this for real.

Somebody had asked how realistic, exactly – are the interrogators allowed to use electric shocks, or physical torture?

"Some physical force is to be expected, yes. But as there must be a limit placed on the exercise, nothing that results in physical damage or permanent injury. You will, however, be psychologically stretched."

Holtack had put up his hand.

"Then what's the point, sir, if it doesn't exactly replicate the treatment we might expect in reality? Besides, surely there's nothing we know that the Warsaw Pact doesn't. What if I were to say, right at the start, _look, you know and I know that there's nothing a really good interrogator can't get out of his prisoner, if he's ruthless enough. So let's cut all the crap, let's make an early night of it, and I'll tell you everything I know right now, to spare us both the bother?"_

By then, most of Holtack's instructors had learnt to take several deep breaths before replying.

"That sort of lack of moral fibre, Mr Holtack, will get you washed out of this class! Any of _that_ sort of behaviour, gentlemen, is an automatic fail grade, and do not forget it!"

Sergeant Major McCaffrey had then put him on punishment drill for three days. This involved _showclean_ – ensuring everything in his locker was gleaming and exactly as it should be, then hand-trucking it to the guardroom for inspection.

"You've got to learn not to be so _candid_!" Underofficer Rollingham-Spiers said, as Holtack wheeled his locker back into the room. "Not that I don't agree with what you said, but the crime was saying it. Not what the Army wants to hear, old sport!"

Rolly was a son of Old Money who was destined for a Guards regiment. Holtack found him to be dim and hearty, but tolerable.

It was no surprise to find himself pitched off a lorry on a dark night with Rolly and a trainee RAF pilot whose name he'd forgotten.

Hearing dogs and men in the distance, the three quickened their pace. _What did they say… it's a good bit of exercise for the Gurkhas. Give 'em bother and those jolly little Nepalese will cut your ears off…_

The bulk of a cowshed loomed up in the distance. Holtack heard mooing. Then he got a flash of inspiration.

"In here. Quick!"

Hopping the farmer's fence, the three of them entered a darkened space that reeked of cows. They quickly found the building was in the shape of a letter L , and hid around its bend.

An unguessable time later, the pursuit found them. They saw the reflection of flashing torches and voices calling in low Ghurkali.

The three hid, barely daring to breathe. Then the pursuit withdrew and was gone. They waited in the stinking cowshed for another hour.

"How did you know?" said Rolly, later.

"Why did they just stop in the doorway and flash torches? And that not for very long." said the RAF man.

Holtack felt suddenly superior. He didn't feel that way often, around the naturally superior Rolly.

"Look, it's simple. Gurkhas are Nepalese, yes? They are also Hindus. Cows are sacred animals. They are to be reverenced, not disturbed or anything like that. I had a suspicion they wouldn't want to get bad karma with the gods by disturbing a shed full of sacred cows. Simple!"

They made a quiet, cautious, way to a main road. Rolly said "leave this bit to me". He flagged down a civilian lorry, and engaged the driver in easy chat. Holtack realised he was persuading them to give a lift to three humble soldiers who were on an evasion exercise. The driver, an ex-Tom with a sense of humour, told them to get in the back and hide under the sacks. He'd thump the cab if he saw a checkpoint, OK?

And then suddenly the three were in a town, that they knew to be well outside the exercise area.

"What now?"

Rolley smiled.

"I'll just ring my brother, and we wait…"

The elder Rollingham-Spiers turned up - in a bloody Bentley - , and collected the three escapees.

"Smells like you all need a bath and fresh clothes" he remarked, conversationally. "Not a problem! Man hath credit card, man can be hospitable to his baby bro and his chums. Let's get you lads out of those uniforms and into civvies!"

The next three days were spent as house-guests of the Rollinghams, and were as pleasant as any Holtack had ever spent. _The English upper classes know how to do these things._

Then they returned to Sandhurst and were bollocked from one end of the office to the other by the General-Commandant.

"But we didn't desert, sir. We were _evading_." Said holtack.

"And the whole purpose of evading is tp put yourself where you know the people hunting you _aren't._ " added Rolly.

"Yes, in your brother's bloody country retreat!" shouted the General. "You have been taking the piss! And you are, at enormous expense to the Army, going to repeat the module in withstanding interrogation, which I gather you clowns thought you'd safely avoided! Now get out of my sight!"

Holtack had barely made it twenty paces down the corridor before somebody leapt on him from behind and pulled a hood over his head. Instinctively he lashed out with a defensive karate blow, an upwards lash of the forearm designed to bring the fist into contact with an assailant standing behind your shoulder.

. He heard a dull _ooof!_ and felt his fist make contact with gristle and flesh. He kicked out with a free foot, and heard an assailant tumble and roll. Just as he was tugging the hood off, he glimpsed other faces, at least three, converging on him. Two others were subduing Rollingham-Spiers.

It took a little more fighting and some bruises before Holtack was down. Then they were run bodily out of the building and thrown into the back of a landrover, which sped off.

Holtack sucked in as much of the confining hood as he could, trying to pull it tight against his face so he could see, dimly, through the material. His hands had been painfully cuffed behind his back, and his torso throbbed from where at least one of the men he'd punched had been playing catch-up.

"The upper-class wanker wasn't a problem, but that Welsh twat learnt to fight dirty somewhere!" he heard a voice say.

_Yes, seven years at St Edmunds. _

"Comes from crawling about in coal-mines, dunnit?" said another. "Ruperts are meant to be upper-class wankers. Start recruiting them from things that crawl out of Welsh coal-mines, it's against nature!"

There was a pause. Then one of their guards saw what Holtack was doing with his hood.

"Ooh, naughty! Can't be having _tha_t!"

A kick in the ribs made Holtack release the hood, and all went dark again.

The next orty-eight house – it felt like eternity – was an experience Holtack only later remembered as a monotonous blur, punctuated by episodes of pain and discomfort.

They had all been warned not to say anything other than name, rank and number to their interrogators, whatever the provocation.

Holtack's handcuffs had come off, and he was forced into an uncomfortable position up against a wall.

He tried to remember Solzhenitsyn's maxim about KGB interrogations:

_Intense pain is never prolonged. Prolonged pain is never intense. _

It helped, but not very much.

Breath stinking of cigarettes and beer and garlic was hot on his face. He heard a voice say

_I heard about yew. You're one of those clever bastards who thought they could take the piss. Who's being clever now, eh? And don't even _**think**_ of making me an offer to tell me all you know, so as to get it all over with and escape the pain. Just for you , we are going to deliver pain!_

Then a swinging kick in the legs bowled him over, followed by abuse for falling. He tied to just lie there and make them drag him back up again. This worked but earned him more kicks.

He knew there were at least five people being interrogated. He could hear other soldiers, including Rolly, repeating their names and ranks and numbers over and again.

Then his trousers and underpants were pulled down and women joined in the interrogation. A soft mocking female voice began making disparaging comments about his dangly bits. He replied "Yeah, and I bet your girlfriend's got a bigger one.."

This earned a punch in the kidneys and a reminder to speak respectfully to a lady, you got that?

"_Cer y cachu!" _he replied. _Fuck off! _

After this, he alternated name, rank and number with insults in Welsh. It helped.

Until, finally, the reply to his comment _All English women eat shit! _was a battering kick that knocked him down, followed by a very Welsh voice telling him, in Welsh, that they had to get me here special, like, to understand you, so is there anything else you want to say, bech?

After that he stuck to the programme, until, an unguessable time later, his trousers were pulled up, he was told to follow me. No, don't take the hood off, and strong hands propelled him out of Hell and into a smaller room where his hood was removed cups of tea were ready.

A Major of the Army Medical Corps was there and was ticking off boxes on a clipboard.

"IT's over. You passed. Relax. I need to give you a quick medical. You really shouldn't have provoked them like that. You'd have got less bruises."

Holtack repeated his name rank and number, stubbornly. He leard Rolly's voice, far and tired, saying "No, it really is over, Phil."

The doctor smiled and shook his head.

"It takes some of them like this".

He handed over a card, signed by the General-Commandant.

It read , in essence,

"The fact you are reading this is proof the exercise is finished. You may now be debriefed, and clean yourselves up."

It took a while for the message to sink in.

"Oh, _good_!" Holtack said, grinning. He turned for the door he had come in by. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not normally violent against women. But that little cow who interrogated me and punched me in the balls is in for a kicking!"

Opening the door, a pistol-armed military policeman, who was twice his size barred his way. The MP shook his head, smiling.

"No offence, sir. I can't let you do that. Sorry."

The doctor took Holtack's arm.

"And it takes some of them this way, too. That's why we have armed guards standing by!"

He had a cup of tea. Some of the other men in the room, tired and battered, made conversation. They were Special Air Services recruits who also had to do this training.

Apparently the General had obtained permission for his two strays to be added onto an SAS-level course in resisting interrogation. Therefore Holtack and Rolly had been trained at a far more severe level than normally happens to officer cadets.

"We were quite impressed with you, sir. The way you took it and everything. OK, you did a few things that would have failed any of us. You let yourself rise to the taunting, for one thing, and when you started cussing them in Welsh. But they made allowances, as technically your course was last week and you weren't really meant to be on this one. . Are you the two who evaded all they way? We all had a good laugh about that! Overall you did well enough to pass."

"Well, I'm certainly not retaking!"(4)

Holtack and Rolly were given a day of excused-duties to recuperate.

And now that training was paying dividends in a strange and mysterious place… at least none of the women here were making killer remarks about the size of his tackle…

* * *

**(1) **This may be possible given infinite time and patience on the part of all concerned.

**(2) **It's shrunk a bot since, but this was the early Eighties in the face of the perceived Russian threat.

**(3) **See my novella** Doppelgangers. **

**(4) **Lest you think I exaggerate, this is fairly typical training in resisting interrogation handed out to key personnel in the Armed Forces. It's a regular feature of books and memoirs about the mos well-known secret army in the world, the SAS. It is well known that all SAS soldiers have to go through this ordeal. But the other side of the coin is that elsewhere in the British Army, people are being trainewd to _delive_r this sort of interrogation. And nobody's written a book about it yet (or been allowed to).


	20. For a good night's sleep

_**Slipping Between Worlds 20**_

**_Apologies._**

**_Just had a birthday weekend. Too intoxicated to type, in the main... here's a short to keep the story going. _**

_**The Watch-House, Ankh-Morpork**_

Holtack started to undress, seeking to blot out the uncomfortable fact there were three women in the room, and the bad memories that were surfacing of _the last time. _At least they were allowing him to undress himself, in his own time.

As he took off his combat jacket, there was a flutter on the lower edge of vision, and a soft papery thud as of something hitting the ground.

"Pick it up, please. And hand it over." requested the scar-faced policeman. Holtack discovered it was a booklet of some sort, printed in that crude-looking seventeenth century typeface, the sort that looked as if rats had been nibbling at the letters. The spelling was Cromwellian as well: the cover, crudely printed, announced

_**Wellcome to Ankh-Morporkke, Cityie Of A Onne Thousandde Surpriƒes! **_

"That old thing." said the policeman, dismissively. "If you were relying on _that,_ no wonder you went from one life-threatening situation to another!"

He tossed it away, dismissively. The woman sergeant whistled. She was studying his combat-jacket.

"If that was done by a knife, by rights it should have gone right through you!" she said, showing him a neat ten-inch slash down the back.

"I _thought_ one of them tried to stab me!" Holtack said, thanking that the big unwieldy flak-jacket he wore under his combats was good for _something_, at least.

Scarface.. _no let's use his name, Commander Vimes – _took in the gash, then indicated Holtack's flak jacket.

"That's some kind of body armour?" he asked. He picked it up and worked the material between his fingers, curiously.

"It's a hollow outer fabric shell, sir, stuffed with up to twenty layers of what's called _ballistic nylon._" Holtack said, helpfully. "I only _wear _the thing, so I'm not sure of the exact black magic involved"

"He saw the young boffin's face pick up at his use of the word "magic".

"What happens, apparently, is that the material is soft and pliant to the touch until somebody throws a brick at it, or tries to put a knife through it. At the point of impact, everything scrunches up tight and hard, and all of a sudden it's like trying to push a knife through a brick or a steel plate. If I were to be hit by a flying brick, I might stagger back a few places, but the ballistic nylon would absorb and spread the impact so I would not be bruised as much. Apparently they can also withstand low-calibre low velocity bullets. I've never been hit by one."

He saw the blank looks on the faces of his watchers.

"There are a whole range of guns – _gonnes_ – out there. This is one of the more potent weapons and is only used by armies. But there are versions that fire very much smaller bullets with a lot less propulsive power behind them. _Those_ gonnes, this flak jacket can withstand. Although I'm not in a hurry to prove the proposition, frankly."

Vimes asked how easy it is to produce this ballistic nylon stuff. Holtack replied that early attempts at making an impact-absorbing vest had used up to thirty layers of silk, which appeared to have a similar effect. It was based on a solution people in the old days had come up with to high-velocity bows and arrows. "That metal armour you wear, commander, might _deflect_ an arrow and push it to one side? That's why your breastplate has that sort of fluting on it, so as to persuade any arrows hitting it to skid off to the side? But if a really high-powered arrow hit you at the right angle, it would just punch a hole through that armour, and then through _you_. But if you were wearing a padded jacket underneath with thirty layers of silk in, that would absorb all the power of the arrow and stop it. Granted, you might get a very big bruise or a couple of broken ribs – but you'd have stopped a longbow. I'm pretty sure the flak jacket could stop a crossbow bolt, if you'd like to try?"

"They say the man who can invent lightweight body armour that works is going to be worth a fortune in this city." Vimes muttered.

"The latest experiments are with protective solid plates of the right kind" Holtack said, trying not to be too specific. _A clever partner who knows about metals and materials… _"A material called _**kevlar.**_ You don't have it here? Pity."_ All that time spent talking to the armourers and making friends among the tradesmen was not wasted, it appears!_

"You will also see, sir, the design incorporates additional cushioning at both shoulders. This is meant to absorb the recoil energy which is caused by repetitive firing of gonnes. The drawback to using such a powerful weapon is that the weapon recoils into the shoulders and may cause bruising or other stress injury if the soldier fires fifty to a hundred rounds or more. This cushions and spreads the stress involved."

Vimes nodded, passing the flak jacket along the table to the boffin and the vicar/schoolmaster. He noticed the schoolmaster exploring the material with some interest and noting how it closed up when pressure was applied. He whispered "Can we replicate this material, Professor Stibbons?" to the boffin, who looked interested – _but very, very, tired - _and who made a non-committal response.

But the interview soon followed a recognisable format –

_One jersey, green, wool. Cloth reinforcement in green. Rank badges on the epaulettes. _

Holtack tried to look bored and tired as he handed his jersey over. It worked. Vimes gave it a cursory glance, apart from remarking on how well-equipped soldiers in your – country – are equipped.

"_But what the Hells is that, in the sling under your arm?"_

Holtack sighed. It was the bane of his life, that wretched bloody Browning. Officers and senior NCO's were issued a Browning pistol, to be concealed about the person on local leaves or on any social or personal journeys outside the barracks in civvie clothes. It was meant to be a last-ditch defence if a night out or pub visit went bad, or if you were bounced while in civvies. When not in use it was meant to be securely locked up in the company ammo store.

Holtack hated the Browning.

His personal opinion was that if a disagreement in a pub got so bad people started waving weapons around, it was way past time to get out and run. The moment you used a Browning to dissuade people from thinking about damaging you, it was too late. Besides, let's say he was in civvies, on a Northern Irish street, and circumstances dictated that he brought the Browning out and started waving it around. Any passing Army patrol that was _not_ drawn from the Welch would see….

…misunderstandings and tragic accidents had happened in the past.

And standing orders obliged him to carry the thing when outside barracks and not in uniform. Standing orders also obliged him to remember to lock it up when he brought it back, and he invariably forgot. Rather than face a £50 fine every time, he opted to carry the wretched thing with him rather than hope a spot check would not happen while he was out. As it was yet another item of kit issue that would identify him as an officer in the eyes of a sniper, he tended to hide it underneath several layers of clothing.

"I'm afraid it's another _gonne_, sir" Holtack said, evenly, using the peculiar local pronunciation of _gun._ He became aware of a certain chill in the air, punctuated by pointy things.

"Don't misinterpret this, _please!_" Holtack said, reaching for the shoulder holster. "I'm hideously aware there are least four crossbows pointing at me, and I'm no longer wearing a protective jacket. I am going to _very slowly_ reach for the Gonne and then hand it over."

He looked up at Precious Jolson.

"Perhaps you, miss? I can hand you the weapon, and you very carefully hand it over to your commanding officer?" He didn't add _And if you suspect my motives, you are more than capable of thumping me stupid._

"Don't shoot unless I give the order" Vimes said, to nobody in particular, as Holtack eased the pistol out and very carefully handed it over, butt-first, to Precious. Holding it gingerly in both hands, , she set it on the table in front of Vimes, who picked it up and examined it.

"Heavy, for its weight!" Vimes remarked.

"The Browning 9mm automatic pistol" Holtack explained. Deadly at up to a hundred yards but that's a matter of bad luck. You can only really aim it for twenty-five or so, but for the sort of close-in fighting that's designed for, it's good enough. Thirteen soft lead bulleted cartridges stored in a clip inside the butt…"

Holtack broke off. It hadn't taken long for Vimes, perhaps in response to some ancient and multiversal policeman's instinct, to slip the trigger guard over his finger and spin the pistol on it. He winced.

"Sir? The weapon is loaded and fully functional. If you perhaps stopped spinning it on your finger and put it down on the table, sir…"

Vimes grinned, sheepishly.

"Where were we?" OK, your uniform. Keep on undressing, please."

Holtack was allowed his underwear and socks, although with a growing red shame he realised they weren't in the most sanitary condition.

"We'll get you a prisoner's uniform." Vimes said, "like we did with the other one. "I'll see you get your clothing laundered and dried for tomorrow, as it's all you have to wear to stand up in front of the Patrician. As with your soldier who we have in custody, I'll see about getting you a shower later, as frankly you do pong a bit and I like to keep sanitary cells.

"Thank you for being so honest and open with us, as speaking as a policeman, that sort of thing makes a refreshing change. You can keep your cigarettes and lighter so long as you promise not to set light to your cell, and we'll see about food later. Everything else is listed on the prisoners' belonging record sheet, which I will ask you to countersign, and if at any point you are allowed to go free, you will get everything back. Except, perhaps, for the _gonnes. _Professor Stibbons here may also want a longer word with you tomorrow, as he's looking at problems like, _where did you come from_? And _how to get you back there? _But for tonight, it's a cosy cell, you might be pleased to hear."

"Do I get a blanket?" Holtack asked.

"Two, if you want" said Vimes. "And a pillow,"

"Shared?"

"Not unless we're _really _busy. " Vimes assured him.

The fussy little sergeant-clerk passed over a piece of paper and an old-fashioned nib pen. Holtack read it… _$432.57? Blimey! _And signed as best he could.

Vimes nodded.

"We'll launder your uniform for you overnight." he said.

_And search unfamiliar clothing thoroughly for anything else that's hidden in there. How good are you? _

"But for now…" Vimes broke off. Thunderous footsteps were making the floor shake. Holtack balanced himself, wondering.

"Ah, Sergeant Detritus!"

From somewhere behind Holtack, a low, bassy, voice growled. It was low and it was bass and gravel. It would make Barry White sound falsetto.

"We got another of dem, sir. Special Constable Smith-Rhodes brought him in. He am downstairs in der hall. Der funny ting is, he am from Howondaland too. We was expecting dem to all be from Llamedos."

_If "Llamedos" is their Wales, and so far all the Toms they've swept up have been Welsh, then by the sound of it they've picked up one who's about as Welsh as, say, Pik Botha or Ian Smith. Is "howondalandese" the same as "Southern African?" By the sound of it, they've just got Ruijterman._

"Am I allowed to see Fusilier Ruijterman?" Holtack inquired. He heard a soft gasp behind him.

"Dressed like that? Maybe later. Sergeant Detritus? You can escort this one down to a cell. Get Fred Colon to sort him out some prison skivvies, would you, he knows where they're kept? Don't let him speak to the latest one…"

Holtack had turned to assess the new sergeant. For some reason he visualised a fighting street monster, probably like Mr T in the A-Team, who'd got his rank for one reason only – ability to lead and fight.

"_What the Hell is that?" _Holtack screamed, his nerve suddenly gone.

He'd got a fighting monster, all right. The new mental reference that crept into a tiny sane part of Holtack's mind was not now Mr T from the A-Team. No, it was the Thing, in the Fantastic Four: a creature seemingly made of rock and stone, but animate and, for a given value of the word, intelligent.

"You never seen a troll before, boy?" the thing said, from a tusk-lined orifice in the lower part of its face.

Holtack took a deep breath. The voice was not unfriendly, if you dissociated it from the owner. And it was clearly a sergeant, as it had three stripes either etched or carved in each arm. So it would think and act like a sergeant. Who had never, in Holtack's knowledge or experience, _literally_ eaten anybody alive. And he was also aware of being very very tired in a room where everything had hushed and he suspected he was being judged on his reaction. Again, he drew a deep breath.

"I'm afraid not, sergeant" he said, with honesty. "Your people are just a legend on my world. You are the first troll I've ever met. And I apologise for my reaction."

"No offence, sir" the troll sergeant rumbled, almost lifting its right arm – forelimb – in salute. "You better walk with me. I'm to get you to a cell."

Holtack exchanged a salute with Vimes and the tribunal, then followed the stony mountain that was Detritus. This was surrealistic, but it would all be worth it for a bed… on the way out, he thought he glimpsed a familiar red-haired girl dressed in black. Although he was hazy as to where she was familiar _from. And "girl" is probably the wrong word. She's a few years older than me. _

Detritus led the way through a maze of stairs and corridors - _probably doing it deliberately, taking the long winding way round so as to stop me building a picture of any possible escape route – _until a certain cell-like aspect began to permeate_, _with iron bars dominating sight and clanging doors dominating hearing.

"You is now officially a prisoner under the eye of Sergeant Colon here." the huge troll said. "He been searched, Fred. Him for the Patrician tomorrow."

"Poor bugger" Colon said, sympathetically, as the huge troll stomped off. . "Better book you in, sir. Get you a pillow and some blankets. Feel like a drink?"

"Cup of tea would be nice, Sergeant. Stewed red with four sugars?"

Colon grinned.

"I see you're a young officer who likes his tea, sir! And between you and me, Mister Vimes was dead pleased I brung you in. So I owes you a few favours."

Holtack smiled. OK, so he was in prison. OK, so a death sentence was hanging over him. OK, so he was an unguessable distance away from home and family and Army.

But at least there was going to be a cup of tea, a cigarette, and a good night's sleep in space that was a damn sight cleaner and more comfortable than the Shirt Factory.

Tomorrow was a new day. It would look after itself when it arrived.


	21. Covert operations and AMUFORA

_**Slipping Between Worlds 21**_

_Sorry this took so long. The day's work, while necessary for earning cash to live on, was sucking the creativity right out of me. I think this is on track again now! _

_**Ankh-Morpork. Night. **_

And after an evening and early night full of quiet incident, Ankh-Morpork slept. Or at least, that half of it, that habitually did most of what it had to do in daylight, slept.

Holtack slept, eventually, wrapped in two blankets on a surprisingly comfortable pull-down shelf that did duty as a cell bunk. At other places in the Watch building, Paul Hughes and Hans Ruijterman also slept deeply and thankfully.

Asked to attend just one more initial questioning, Ponder Stibbons had struggled to concentrate throughout Hans Ruijterman's interrogation, but had been escorted afterwards to what the Watch described as "crash accommodation". A large upstairs room at the Yard had been set out, uncomfortably like a school dormitory, with lots of simple bunks.

"It gets like this sometimes." the escorting Watchman had said. "You're on the job for twenty hours, you can't get back home to sleep, and if you do, you can bet they send somebody out to get you back to the Yard two hours later. So Mr Vimes rigged up the crash-bunks here. That way you get some sleep, and you're still on the premises for when they want you next. Paid time, too! There ain't many jobs that pay you the rate for getting your head down and sleeping!"

Ponder slipped his boots and glasses off, paused, then decided that was all that was necessary by way of pre-sleep undressing. His head was pounding and he was slipping in and out of waking dreams. Gratefully, he slumped onto the bunk, trying to ignore the odour of over-worked Watchman, then was aware of nothing more.

* * *

Fusiliers Powell and Williams slept, well-fed and watered, in the Park-keeper's hut at Hide Park. Veteran soldiers, they would awaken with daybreak, then stealthily cover their tracks and steal away to lie low in the dense undergrowth, water bottles filled, and the park-keeper's tea and coffee supplies plundered. At some point they'd make a plan for coping with this strange new world, but not yet.

* * *

And Sergeant Williams slept the best night of all in sergeants' quarters at the Spionkoep Barracks, having (temporarily) exchanged Armies, and having managed to get himself usefully on the payroll of a different but familiar Regiment. His tomorrow would be one of the most interesting of all.

* * *

And at the Lady Sybil, the Watch Igor, guarded and watched by ever-vigilant clan members, felt the suckers lose their strength and the thing on his face peeling away with an audible wet sucking noise. An Igor deftly caught it and transferred the dying, feebly struggling, thing to a preserving jar. Igorina awoke from a half-doze to run forward to check the damage to his face. It was surprisingly little: a ring of angry red and purple bruises and small bloody pits showed where the thing had been.

Noting that his stomach was now rather distended, she leant forwards to hear his first words.

"The New Queen will be born between eleven and mid-day tomorrow." he said, through a dry throat. As Igorina reached for water, he added "Be vigilant. For now I need to sleep."

And sleep he did. Igorina envied him his cool and detachment.

* * *

A small knot of Assassins convened in the entrance hall of Pseudopolis Yard, shortly after the questioning and internment of Fusilier Ruijterman. Ponder Stibbons had been thanked for his unstinting help and shown upstairs to where he could grab at least a couple of hours' sleep before he was needed again.

Lord Downey, Johanna Smith-Rhodes and Jocasta Wiggs made polite small-talk in the hall, aware they were being overheard by at least five Watchmen, and stood guard over three bags full of British Army clothing. Vimes and Downey had reflected on who was best placed to handle them. While the two rarely agreed on anything, they both understood that there was a need for highly unfamiliar clothing to be thoroughly searched by the best possible professional hands.

And both had come up with exactly the same name, a woman who could be counted upon not only to uncover any last secrets concealed in the uniforms, but also to repair and launder it afterwards, as promised to the owners.

Downey had therefore been entrusted with re-calling her to the Guild for some unscheduled overtime at a very high bonus rate, and the uniforms of the three soldiers had been handed to him for return in the morning, together with a full rundown of any other interesting items discovered that the owners had chosen not to declare during interrogation.

Vimes had grinned and allowed Downey to take the uniforms away. But the _gonnes_ and the _ammo_ remained in double-locked high-security custody at the Yard.

Jocasta Wiggs still felt slightly over-awed at moving among the people who had trained and educated her for seven years. It wasn't quite two years since her graduation, and she still felt nervous at being in the vicinity of the Master and a senior teacher. She felt embarrassed that they were treating her as an _equal_, for one thing. Oh, a very sane and objective core inside her was saying _but you __**are**__ their equal – isn't that what they trained you to be? Alice Band treats you as an equal or she wouldn't have asked you to partner her on assignments. You graduated and became a full Assassin. They respect that. _

But a majority vote made up of glands and emotions was finding it all to be a little bit intimidating. Seven years of memories of pupil-hood were hard to shake off - she still wanted to be deferential to Miss Smith-Rhodes, a teacher who she had found to be fierce and somewhat frightening, even though Johanna was genuinely pleased at the Assassin her pupil had turned out to be. Even though Johanna had expressed her admiration for the way Jocasta had bloodlessly brought Holtack into custody. And even though Johanna raised a warning finger every time Jocasta forgetfully breathed the first "M" of _Miss… _anywhere near her.

Lord Downey was, well, he was _the_ senior Assassin, the Master of the Guild, and she would always call him "_sir_" or "_my lord_". That was expected, after all: if the rumours were true, and the line of succession had been fixed by the Dark Council, the next Guild Master after Downey could be Mr Mericet or Mr Nivor, who would no doubt get the obligatory ennoblement from Vetinari. Or it might please or amuse Vetinari to advance Miss Sanderson-Reeves as the first woman _ever_ to become Guild Mistress. Rumour whispered that this was his long-term plan for her, after rescuing her from the gallows and giving her probation as a trainee Assassin.

Jocasta smiled. On the face of it, she was responding to genuine praise from Downey. She shook off the idea of the terrible "Mrs Mericet" as Guild Mistress, and smiled warmly.

"What Sir Samuel thought could only be accomplished by nearly sixty of his Watchmen was brought about by one Assassin." Downey reflected, a beatific smile on his face. "And you were careful to allow Sergeant Colon the lesser honour of bringing in the _gonne,_ my dear. The real secret, the real catch, walked out with _you_. Now I am hoping Vetinari will spare the death sentence so as to allow opportunity to unlock the secrets these men hold. It does not matter if the _gonnes_ are destroyed – and it may well be better that way. No, the lieutenant has a story to relate and I would rather like him to relate it to _us_. No Army officer on _this_ world is ever trained like that. Look at Rust or Eorle! It appears that Assassin-level training is routinely delivered to men like our _visito_r. I wish to know how much, and whether they are schooled in aspects of the Art about which we have little or no knowledge. Jocasta, I would like you to continue to forge a relationship of trust and mutual friendship with this young man."

"He has said to me that he would like to see the Guild, sir." Jocasta offered. "If Lord Vetinari allows this, I take it I can show him everything?"

"Please do." Downey said. "If we could induce him to remain here, I believe he could very easily pass through a mature students' course and qualify with the Black?"

"Easily, sir!" said Johanna. "I wes only up in the interrogation room very briefly, but it wes noticeable that he could think under pressure. He correctly identified the soldier I detained as the How… the _sedefrrrikan….. _Ruijterman. Now _thet _wes a strengeness!"

"And he looked at you as if he knew you. That was very strange!" said Downey. The strangest thing of all pricked at his attention.

"Did he show you any iconographs, miss Wiggs?"

"No, sir?"

"There's a very strange one in his possession. It was taken on this parallel Discworld, this _Earth_, but has a very familiar face on it. I won't say anything yet in case it prejudices the judgement of either of you, but ask Vimes to let you both see it. You'll understand more then."

_And just wait until he meets her, _Downey thought. _We all agreed he was from a different world after his reaction to the troll. There's no way anyone could have acted that degree of shock and fear and consternation. And Jocasta reports he doesn't believe vampires exist. _**Despite**_ his having met several earlier. He apparently believes them to be silly humans who are playing at it and posing. Well, he'll meet Sally von Humperdinck sooner or later. As well as Alice. _**Our**_ Alice. Oh, I really want to be there when that happens. Ponder Stibbons was very clever indeed to come up with Doppleganger theory. If it is correct and I remember rightly, Holtack and the others cannot have doppelgangers on this Disc. Or they would not have been able to cross. _

Although tired, Downey permitted himself a smile.

"As Sergeant Littlebottom seems to be ready to join us, I propose we return these garments to the Guild for the attention of our expert!" he said, picking up a bag full of clothing. "She ought to have arrived by now. If I can offer you a ride back to Filigree Street, Johanna, Jocasta? Ah, Sergeant, so glad you could join us!"

Cheery was to be the Watch representative present while the uniforms were searched. Carrot had insisted. Downey had not pressed the point, remarking that in this case the Guild would be _pleased_ to pass on a little of its expertise to the Watch, as a public service. At this point in the conversation, Carrot had moved his chair a little closer in between Vimes and Downey, and Johanna had taken a discreet step forwards too.

Johanna had no problems with Cheery: they'd worked together before, most recently on the Hive problem. If a Dwarf with an axe was watching your back, then you knew it was being watched. That sort of thing, in a community of professional fighting women, built _trust. _

"So whet do you meke of him, Cheery?" she asked, as they went out for the coach. The dwarf stroked her beard thoughtfully.

"He's a whole bundle of contradictions." she said. "It was very obvious from the way he reacted to Detritus that he'd never seen a troll before. Which must mean he's not from round here. But where around here _doesn't_ have trolls?"

"Howondaland?" said Johanna, thoughtfully. "No, forget thet. His eccent wes not right. A little Llamedos, perhaps. End not a man from the gutter. En _educated_ man. He could hev been a pupil et our School.".

"That occurred to me too." said Downey.

"And he doesn't believe vampires exist!" Cheery added, sounding doubtful.

"He met the staff in Café Necros." said Jocasta. "But he thinks they're silly human girls playing at it. Who've had their canine teeth filed to points. _Goths, _he called them."

"Es in the sevege end bloodthirsty horse-soldiers who brought the Letetian Empire creshing down in flames?" asked Johanna, hopefully.

Jocasta shook her head.

"More as in the silly human girls who really want to be vampires, and dress in black and dye their hair black and use a lot of pancake slap and who call themselves Astrella rather than, say, Mavis." she corrected her. "Sorry, mi…_Johanna_."

"But he accepted me without blinking." Cheery mused. "So you'd suspect he knows about _dwarfs_, wherever he's from."

"Sorry, no, no story, nothing to say!" Downey firmly spoke, as Sacharissa Cripslock came up on his right as the coach arrived.

"Lord Downey, about this rumour spreading throughout the city that aliens from another planet have landed here! And that they're carrying deadly weapons, which are a long way in advance of anything we can fight back with?"

"Nothing to say!"

" Does this explain why you've been conferring with Commander Vimes and why the Watch and the Guild have been out in force tonight? And uniquely, the two organisations have been working together on this?"

"Apologies, but no comment."

"And several of the alien invaders have been captured, and are in custody, here?"

Downey and Johanna looked round. Watch barriers had been set up to hold back a growing crowd, which had a certain anorak and halitosis look to it as well as a tendency to fixate on the left ear when talking to you. A crude banner said

_Ankh-Morpork Unidentified Flying Object Research Association __**(1)**_

A distant voice was calling for Sacharissa because he wanted to talk to her _about my auntie being abducted by aliens, miss!_

She pulled a face and ignored him. Otto, the iconographer, cheerfully took a series of iconographs. Behind them, the AMUFORA contingent made conversation.

_Cover-up, my friend. Even if she wanted to publish, Vetinari won't let her. Did you know he's got one of their spacecraft hidden in a loft at the Palace? But it's a whitewash. You'll never read about it in the Times. They'll never be allowed._

_Gerraway!_

"_No, straight up! I was passing at five in the morning, right, and watched it come out for a test flight.__**(2)**_

_And then there was that thing that landed on the Ankh in bright daylight. Shaped like an eagle, it was! You can't tell me humans built that. It was __**far**__ too advanced to be of human manufacture__**!**__**(3)**_

"_You are telling me, friend. And within two or three days it disappeared! Cover-up again. And they have the cheek to tell us it's down to people nicking the wood what the exotic advanced alien spacecraft was made of! All hushed up. Evidently!_

Sacharissa shook her head and grimaced. She turned to Jocasta.

"Miss Wiggs? Rumour has it you met and spoke to one of them…"

"Sorry. No comment. They drink coffee, though.."

"Miss Smith-Rhodes? Please, you brought one of them in…"

"Ek is jammer. Ek het vergeet hoe om te praat Morporkiaan!" Johanna said, but not unkindly. ("_I am tired and have forgotten how to speak Morporkian")_

Sacharissa shook her head as they got on the coach, carrying three big sealed opaque bags.

"_But what's in the bags…" _

"_Laundry_, miss Cripslock. Good night to you!" said Downey, tipping his hat. And then they were off.

Their next stop was the Guuild laundry, where the night shift had been supplemented by the Assassins' Guild head laundress, "Washable" Topsy.

Topsy was in a good mood, the promise of a fifty dollar bonus for her skills and silence ensuring her interest and good humour. She met them in a sub-room with two of her most trusted and skilled staff members.

"So what's it all about, my Lord?" she asked.

Downey explained, quickly.

Topsy nodded. Her working life had necessarily made her the acknowledged expert in searching clothing. She did laundry for Assassins: she managed washing and repairing clothing for the faculty and students and other residents at the Guild.

Bedlinen and clothing for nearly two thousand Assassins and students of both sexes passed through Topsy's laundry each washing cycle. Assassins were not noticeably more forgetful than other members of the community, but the nature of the profession provided extra hazards for the honest hard-working laundress. In fact, it wasn't just forgotten pens, coins, and banknotes in the pockets that she and her staff had to watch for. Things overlooked and forgotten in Assassin laundry could be _worse_ than that.

Following an embarrassing meeting with Mrs Manger, the Laundresses' Guild leader, Lord Downey had had to issue a stern memo to the whole School, backed up by an announcement at Assembly, to the effect that disciplinary action could and would be taken against pupils who forgot to remove all weaponry from clothing items before putting them into the laundry bag provided. _At the very least, _if the negligence of any individual Assassin caused injury to a laundress, that person, if traced, would be liable for paying compensation to a hard-working member of staff forced to seek medical attention and take sick leave.

The laundry staff, meanwhile, out of a sense of self-preservation and prudence, had become _experts_ at searching clothing for hidden weapons. It had been Topsy, for instance, who had found the hitherto undetected shaped stilettos in a certain senior lady Assassin's bra, designed to be weapons of absolute last resort. Alice Band had then been fined the agreed $10 per weapon, which she had paid up with good grace, knowing it went into the Laundresses' Day Trip To Sto Lat fund. There is more than just underwiring in an Assassin's bra…

Given three Roundworld army uniforms to search, repair and launder, Topsy and her women searched them completely and diligently, three Assasins and a Watchwoman looking on.

"Ooh, clever!" Topsy exclaimed. "This one belongs to the officer, right? Just feel under here, my Lord. This epaulette has a bot of black piping on it around the edges. But it feels too rigid, yes?"

Downey frowned.

"Now you draw my attention to it, yes."

"I'll just open it up here, just a little… oh, yes! It's one of them giggley saws!"

She drew out a six-inch length of flexible metal with a loop on each end and passed it to Downey. A Gigli saw is a flexible wire saw used in delicate surgery. Normally used to cut things like bone and surgical titanium, it can go through a cell bar, for instance, in a remarkably quick length of time. It had been concealed inside the braiding of the epaulette and had so far escaped detection.

"Clever!"" said Johanna. "We might not heve noticed!"

Fingertip searching also turned up a small roll of American dollars, wrapped in waterproof cellophane, sewn into an inside seam. A razor blade in its wrapper, waterproofed inside a clear plastic outer cover, was concealed inside another epaulette, hidden by the starched stiffness of the material. **(4)**

"_Wilkinson's Sword" _commented Downey. "Odd. That was the name of the old Fencing and Swordsmanship teacher. The one just before Emmanuelle."**(5)**

Downey and his team relaxed and watched the show. There was nothing like an expert demonstrating how it ought to be done. And Topsy was worth every penny.

* * *

**(1) **A play on "BUFORA" – "_British __Unidentified Flying Object Research Association_", a haven for anoraks with a UFO fixation

**(2) **Actually it was Leonard of Quirm flying one of his models.

**(3) **Leonard again. See Terry Pratchett's _**The Last Hero**_ and the pictures of the Kite….

**(4) **These were all hiding places used by British officers in WW2, as a means of carrying concealed prohibited items into captivity with them. Any potential enemy of Great Britain should be more than aware of this by now and know, from German experience, where to look. The Gigli saw is a lovely bit of kit, used mainly by surgeons for delicate cutting.

**(5) **Mr Wilkinson is still named in the _**New Discworld Companion**_ as a former teacher at the Guild, who sponsored the Wilkinson Cup for best swordsman in the School. We assume he meant girls are invited to participate too...


	22. An officer and a sergeant

_**Slipping Between Worlds 22**_

_Just getting back into the saddle after a fortnight off... more will follow_

Holtack had very gratefully had a perfunctory wash in the bucket of cold water provided in the cell. He had examined it closely and wished for his escape kit, which contained a packet of water purification pills, the best modern technology could offer. Although he strongly suspected they would not nearly be enough, and even fractional distillation would have had an uphill struggle with this liquid. Tilting the barrel slightly, the sight and sensation of some sort of muddy sediment shifting at the bottom told him all he needed to know: he hastily let it settle again for fear of stirring things up.

_Only drink boiled liquids in this place, _he told himself. _Or else alcohol. And that brings problems all of its own. Where's that fat sergeant with the cup of tea he promised? And if he used this water, I hope he boiled it!_

But the well-being brought about by being able to wash face, feet and other problematical bits, however skimpily, had been worth it. It all brought up a memory, not from Sandhurst but from the Officer Selection Board that preceded it. The selection candidates had prepared themselves for many possible ordeals and tasks over a three-day job interview process. Being paraded with a mess-tin, a flannel and a small bar of soap, they were confronted, on their first morning, by a naked and unabashed Royal Marines corporal, who then without a shred of reluctance had demonstrated how one mess-tin full of water and a flannel might be employed to wash the body to an acceptable standard of hygiene. This had not featured on anyone's preparation and had come as a surprise.

The corporal had kept up a running commentary while bathing:

_We learnt how to do this in North Africa in the war, where when you're fighting in a desert, you do not get much water. Montgomery's army were issued three pints per day per man for all purposes. This included washing! _

_Also, any NCO working in training recruits will know that even today, we still get the odd filthy Herbert who needs to be taught from scratch. That even applies to officer cadets, gentlemen, you would be surprised! _

_So we take you back to first principles and explain what you need to do. We have had hard experience telling us that not every young man of seventeen or eighteen necessarily knows how to wash himself. We find it safest not to assume. _

_With minimal water, gentlemen, we move downwards from the face to the problem areas of the male body. Armpits. Crack and sack. Behind the knees. And finally feet. A moment's thought will tell you why we do the face __**first. **_

_Got the idea? Good. Now strip off. It's your turn!_

Watched by assessing officers, the thirty potential officers had done likewise. After that, they felt a little bit more bonded and that there was little else that could surprise them. It had been shock treatment, Holtack thought, but a damn useful skill to learn. Taking care not to let any of the suspicious water pass his lips, Holtack took the opportunity to rinse out and wring his socks and underpants over the rather aromatic gully that passed the length of the cell – _talk about an en-suite toilet, _he reflected. At least the cells were hot – they must be near the boilerhouse down here. Then he wrapped himself in the issued prison blankets and dropped into a deep sleep, hoping the damp underwear would dry out in time for morning. .

He was awoken by somebody entering the cell: the jingling of keys on a chain entered his sleep, and by the creaking of the cell door, he was pretty much fully awake.

It was the fat sergeant, who passed the keys to a colleague standing in the corridor – good jailcraft there – and entered, holding a brown paper bag with a triumphant expression. A familiar warm homely aroma filled the intervening space and reminded Holtack he was hungry.

"Brung you some food, sir." Fred Colon said. "At first we wasn't sure if people on your world et curries, but the young lad Hughes assured me you do. So we got a carry-out for the three of you."

Colon took out two achingly familiar tinfoil trays with cardboard lids, and what looked like a rolled nan-bread. He left a knife and fork with the food.

"There's a cup of tea on its way, sir. Sorry we couldn't do this earlier. Busy night!"

Holtack, blanket-wrapped as if he were an IRA detainee, hobbled to the rudimentary table in the cell. He peeled back a corner of the lid. Steam escaped, and there was a familiar brown-ness, studded by red and green, underneath.

_By all that's holy… it's a rogan josh! Looks like lamb, or maybe mutton…_

He set to, reflecting that in prison, it is always wise to make friends with the jailor. And Fred Colon was certainly well disposed towards him…

Later on, Colon collected the remains for disposal. He happily refilled Holtack's teacup. Holtack, who had no intention of drinking the water, hoped Hughes and Ruijterman had employed the same wariness. He chatted to Colon about the set-up of the City, and whether or not any more of his men had been brought in yet.

Colon sighed.

"We had a lead on one, sir. He was seen going up Bitwash Street towards the Hubwards Gate. A patrol was sent to intercept him, but then he disappeared, somewhere near the Prince of Llamedos. That's a pub". he added, helpfully.

"Probably went in for a drink, then" Holtack suggested. "I might have done much the same, once I'd got some money together. Bought a few drinks in a pub and got people talking, get the information I needed, get off the street where I knew the police were looking for me. And your policemen didn't follow?"

"Bless you, sir. The Prince is an Army pub. We don't go in ourselves if we can help it, and we leave the Provost-Marshal to enforce justice in there, as if it was an extension of the barracks. Mr Vimes says better the military police get their heads bashed in, than the Watch."

Holtack nodded. There were pubs like that in every garrison town in Britain. And the civilian police treated those with the same sort of extreme caution, being happy to hand over local law enforcement to the redcaps.

"Ankh-Morpork has an Army? Tell me about it."

He listened, intently, as Colon explained the military set-up in this place. To his late twentieth century ears, it sounded like a throwback to Restoration times, perhaps even up to the Garnet Wolsey reforms of the late nineteenth century.**(a)**

"There's a dedicated military academy and officer training school at Sto Helit" he repeated, fixing the idea in his head, "that trains junior officers not just for this army, but _everybody's_. And the various Lords and city leaders each raise their Regiments and underwrite all expenses. Which means the Regiments are not under the direct command of Lord Vetinari but of the men who pay for them. You yourself have served in at least three, no doubt with distinction."

Colon reddened.

"Thank you, sir. And yes, it does cause bother from time to time. When we were at almost-war with Klatch a year or two back, Lord Rust, who commanded several Regiments, deposed Lord Vetinari, who at the time _didn't,_ and took over as Patrician for the duration."

"But Lord Vetinari has since taken great care to raise his own Army?"

"That he has, sir! With the help of Mr Vimes, who is also Duke of Ankh and owing to his marrying Lady Sybil, he is a very rich man in his own right. Lord Vetinari took his cue from Agatea, sir, where those clever little yellow sods… sorry, the Agatean people… they've got them _barking dogs_, sir. At the time we didn't. So His Lordship got hold of a few, and Mr Vimes' money paid for the Artificers to develop the technology…"

Holtack must have looked puzzled.

"The _barking dogs_, sir. That's as near as the Agatean comes out in our lingo. We din't have a name for them. Then somebody found a word in a very old book. _Artillery_."

Holtack took a moment to digest this. Up until now, guided by Colon's description, he'd been thinking in terms of mediaeval archers and crossbowmen wearing vaguely Napoleonic uniforms, combined with regiments of heavy pike-armed soldiers, straight out of the English Civil War or Swiss _Landsknecht_ tradition. Supported by cavalry that would be right out of the Napoleonic tradition, in terms of both dress and approach. Led by officers who came from families of influence and power, who could afford to buy their rank and every so often purchase a fitting promotion.

Oh, the purchase system had worked, to the extent that it had generated (more by accident than design) the generals who had won the battles that made a British Empire – the Marlboroughs**(1)**, Wolfes**(2)**, Clives**(3)** and Wellingtons**(4)** – but it had also generated a fair few blithering idiots, like Elphinstone**(5)**, Raglan**(6)** and Cardigan**(7)**. He reflected that the successive disasters of First Afghanistan, the Indian Mutiny and the Crimean War, occurring as they did at roughly decade intervals, had forced the Wolsey reforms and ended the old purchase system. But even so, some late-budding talent, such as Lord Chelmsford**(8)** and General Redvers-Buller**(9)****,** had maintained a reputation for British military amateurism right into the twentieth century. And after the Boer War had come the…

He shook the idea out of his head, asking Colon about the artillery. He divined that Ankh-Morpork's artillery was horse-drawn, as yet muzzle-loading, and capable of causing great damage in the right hands.

"I see" said Holtack, visualising. "We had artillery like that about, ooh, two hundred years ago!"

"Sir?" Colon said, taken aback. He had just been describing the most advanced military technology existing on the Disc, feeling a heartfelt pride that it belonged to Ankh-Morpork, and now their guest was dismissively saying that sort of thing was two hundred years in his past…

_Hellfire, I've wounded his pride now. This will never do. _

Holtack quickly recalled what he could remember of the Battle of Badajoz, one of the battle honours the Royal Welch had accumulated in nearly three hundred years, and described how massed artillery of the sort Colon was describing had ripped down the city walls over a period of two or three days, allowing the Welch to storm and take the city. OK, so this had been in 1810, but it was a good one to soothe injured pride with.

"We'd never have been able to do that without the Artillery." he said. "Sounds like you've got a truly potent weapon there, especially if only you and these…Agateans?... have it. Must make you a world power, eh?"

Colon blossomed with national pride.

"It certainly does, sir! And Lord Vetinari and Mr Vimes both absolutely insisted that the new _Corpse of Royal Artillery_ belongs to them alone. The commanding officer reports only to Vetinari, and the other Lords are all barred from raising artillery units. And they also decided to expand the Palace Guard into infantry, sir, the new Foot Guards regiments who will always be on call at the Palace and are loyal only to the Patrician. That way, you'll never get an idiot…" (Colon visibly checked himself, and nervously looked round to see if he'd been overheard) "that is, sir, a man like Rust, walking into the Palace backed by his regiment and ordering Vetinari to step down, he's taking over. Mr Vimes is officially the colonel-in-chief, but day to day command is with Colonel Wrangle, who is absolutely loyal to the Palace. The next step is Guards Cavalry, as it's a funny thing, sir, the Changing of the Guard outside the Palace pulls in tourists and visitors like you wouldn't believe! His Lordship reasons that if people are coming in from as far away as Agatea to watch the guard change over, we might as well make a _really_ good show of it and give 'em something to see every day!"

"We do that on my world, too." Holtack agreed. "An old friend of mine, a chap I trained with, went into the Guards and does all the ceremonial stuff outside Royal palaces."

Idly, he wondered what Rolly was up to these days. He also noted the correspondence that had created what amounted to a Household Division here, even though there wasn't a King any more, just a Ruling Patrician who kept the throne warm. _If there's a Denethor here, is there a Sauron somewhere? After all, they've got trolls here, and they were vicious sods in Middle-Earth. And out there somewhere, is there an Aragorn? _

"So… if there's a steward here, a Patrician ruling in the name of the King, then someday the King might return, or his heir?" probed Holtack. To his surprise, the fat sergeant shifted uncomfortably and seemed reluctant to speak.

"No chance of that, sir. Lord Vetinari'd never allow it."

He went on to say that, very cleverly, his Lordship had made absolutely certain of control of the whole Army, as he directly controls all the supporting arms, you know, sir, all the boring unglamorous stuff like supply and engineering and transport, that the old Lords have never bothered about because it's beneath them. Any of the Lords trying to take over would end up running out of arrows or boots or basic rations, simply because Vetinari controls the quartermasters and the suppliers. I'm not sure if Lord Rust or Lord Selachii have worked this one out yet!"

Colon permitted himself a big grin. Holtack nodded in appreciation. This Lord Vetinari _who I'll be facing sooner or later _really sounded like the sort of devious bastard who couldn't be winkled out of power because he 'd taken care to confiscate all the big sharp pins.

What's the Army like in your country?"

Holtack explained.

"No conscripts?" Colon said, surprised.

"Volunteers only. We gave up national service twenty-odd years ago. The trade of soldier is just too deep and involved. You just cannot pull people off the street any more, make them into fighting soldiers _and _get some useful service out of them for the rest of a two-year enlistment. The job's too complicated for that. Besides, a conscript army has lower morale. Two or three years ago on my world, our army of well-motivated expensively trained volunteer soldiers wiped the floor with a conscript army three times its size. The only Argentinean soldiers who gave real trouble were the regular units, career soldiers and volunteers like ourselves. "

With mounting horror, Colon gathered that the role of what would be a half-million strong army was to be fed into a cauldron in the strategic centre of the Western European continent, alongside _millions_ of other soldiers, to contain and ultimately throw back a threatened massive invasion from the East. This would involve million-strong armies and in all probability lethal weapons whose destructive power Colon could not easily imagine.

"One nuke can destroy an entire city." Holtack mused. "Whoever wins, not much is going to be left of Germany afterwards."

"Nukes? Oh, I see." Colon said, gloomily. "They say we had the Mage Wars. Whole cities vaporised with _magic._"

Holtack had heard the word used earlier, by Jocasta Wiggs. She hadn't gone into it very much, and had seemed vaguely disgusted it had been mentioned, but he'd been left with the impression this was what this Discworld had in place of science and technology. Or maybe _magic_ was just their word for it.

"But how can you _live_ knowing you're under a death sentence, sir? If you think you'd only last a day or two in that sort of fighting?"

"Oh, that's the worst case scenario!" Holtack said, cheerfully. "The politicians from the two superpowers have faced each other down before, and usually one side blinks first."

_But we're trained to face it, _he said to himself._ Dead men walking. _

Holtack very carefully asked a few more questions about the nature of this Lord Vetinari. He also asked about Unseen University. He recalled the boffin in the robes who'd been present at his interrogation. He'd seemed sane and approachable enough.

"Oh, that's Professor Stibbons, sir. He's the sanest of the bunch, if you ask my opinion. Apparently magic created… a link, yes, created a link, to your Roundworld. If that caused the accident that pulled you through here, then I daresay Professor Stibbons'll find a way of sending you back. If he can't, nobody can."

Then Colon excused himself, saying it was getting late and it's no service to you, sir, if you're yawning and tired at the Palace tomorrow. Best you get some sleep in. Holtack duly rolled himself up in the blankets on the surprisingly comfortable prison bunk, and soon slept. On the cusp of sleep, Holtack reflected Colon had said the man in British Army uniform seen to dissappear in the vicinity of the Prince of Llamedos had three stripes. And wasn't Llamedos the Discworld analogue of Wales? An idea was prickling at the back of Holtack's mind, as yet unformed, as to where Sergeant Williams may have gone to ground... it was wholly typical of a long-time sergeant to locate a Welsh pub in a totally alien city. He'd find a Welsh pub in a _desert_, for goodness' sake... and Colon had said in passing the local regiments were billeted nearby on the other side of the city gate... the ideas slipped away as he receded into sleep.

* * *

**(a) Garnet Wolsey **was the General who oversaw fundamental reform of the British Army in the late 19th century. He ended purchase and made it mandatory that promotion happened, at least in theory, only for the able and capable on their merits. He also instituted proper training for officers, at Sandhurst Academy and at relevant trade schools for officers of engineers, signallers, et c.

**(1) Marlborough **– the first eminent Churchill, led the British Army to a string of victories in Europe in the Seven Years War

**(2)Wolfe – **won Canada for the Empire

**(3) Clive – **won most of India for the Empire

**(4) Wellington – **won those bits of India for the Empire that Clive couldn't get round to , then defeated French forces in Spain, then culminated in the victory of Waterloo

**(5) Elphinstone **– the General who got an entire Army slaughtered in the First Afgahan War

**(6) Raglan – **the inept commander of British forces in the Crimea. Shares the blame with

**(7) ****Cardigan,**the Rust-like general who led the light Brigade to destruction at Balaclava.

**(8) Chelmsford, **who led a British Army to destruction by the Zulus at Isandhlwana

**(9) Redvers-Buller **whose army was destroyed by the Boers at Spion Kop


	23. Mars Bars on a Sunday morning

_**Slipping Between Worlds 23**_

_**Back into it now - thanks for the kind comments! There may also be a one-shot soon that I found irresistable to write...**_

Back at the Guild, the clothing search over, Jocasta and Johanna were thanked and dismissed. Alice Band was waiting for them and they traded latest news and ideas over late tea in her rooms. Then Johanna excused herself to go to bed. As the door closed behind her, Alice fixed Jocasta with one of the schoolmistressly glares that the younger Assassin remembered, with what she would describe as knicker-wetting dread, from seven years of Education. The fact that they were now technically equals evaporated in Jocasta's mind, as her conditioning took over.

"I don't know, Miss Wiggs" Alice said, dryly. "I tell you not to take any unacceptable risks, and there you are, inviting a lethal killer to coffee at Necros, playing with his _gonne_, and running the gauntlet of forty-odd crossbow-armed and barely-trained Watchmen all of whom are nervous and any one of whom could have let a shot slip, and started an arrow-storm."

Alice shook her head and looked most stern and disapproving.

"I really don't know, Miss Wiggs. As your housemistress I may have to take extreme sanctions concerning your bad behaviour, your recklessness and your over-confidence."

Without warning, Jocasta found herself grabbed, pulled forward, and sprawling over Alice's lap, bottom upwards.

"I might be forced to impose a spanking. Believe me, this is an unpleasant duty…"

Jocasta felt a firm open palm descend on her bottom. It stung, but they'd played similar games before. She wiggled her bottom and looked long into her lover's eyes.

"Aren't you meant to take my knickers down first, Miss?" she invited Alice, who giggled.

"Welcome home, Cass!" she whispered, with relief and affection.

Afterwards, cuddled together in Alice's bed, the older Assassin whispered

"Be very careful, Cass. It hasn't escaped Downey's thinking that you are now the only native person on the Discworld, Assassin or civilian, who's had any sort of training in using a _gonne._ And if _he's_ thought about that, Vetinari certainly will! And while I could get another lover by this time tomorrow, I could never get another _you_."

* * *

The following morning, things picked up tempo and speed again.

After a few hours' sleep, Johanna Smith-Rhodes left a note to her teaching assistant to pick up the routine School duties required that Octeday morning, and set out on a mission. It was not an official mission nor was it especially relevant to the immediate emergency: but her interest had been aroused by many things in the previous twenty-four hours, and she was a good teacher who was keen to exploit the potential of one of those things to make her teaching better. She also didn't know, considering the trial of the three aliens to be held that morning, and the undeniable fact at least three more were still at large, as to whether she'd get another chance in the immediate future. This was best done now. As for cost, she also reasoned that as she'd captured one of the _aliens_ herself, Lord Downey now owed her a favour. She would work on him later.

_But ag, when you consider aliens from another world, the AMUFORA people talk about little grey men with large eyes and no noses who abduct you by night and insert cold metal probes up your __**pousser.**_ She shuddered at the thought of such an iontrusion; she'd once made the mistake of asking Matron Igorina what a speculum was used for, and had received an over-detailed answer. _A normal human male in his thirties who speaks Vondalaans like a civilized person, how likely is __**that?**_

She sighed, and walked to the University among the early-morning throng, largely people going to early services at one Temple or another. Octeday, surprisingly, was the consensus day for religion on the Disc, a surprising mutual agreement among several thousand religions who normally were as prone to making amicable majority ecumenical decisions as a coven-ful of witches. According to the High Priest Hughnon Ridcully, it was down to the Gods agreeing among themselves that Octeday was their day for chilling out and relaxing, and a nice steady flow of belief coming up for them to bask in induced that lizard-on-rock-on-a-sunny-day sense of wellbeing for them to mellow out to. One day where you could be sure a religious service was in progress somewhere on the Disc at any time from midnight to midnight made for happy Gods, and he wasn't going to argue with that, it made his job easier.

The duty Bledlow waved her in, recognising her, and she didn't need to show her researcher's pass: besides, it was quietly agreed that Professor Stibbons' girlfriend was now a fixture at the High Energy Magic building.

The Roundworld Project had been expanded, under the quiet influence of the Patrician, to allow for observers from other Guilds and interested bodies to become accredited researchers. The Assassins' Guild had several very carefully vetted representatives who were allowed limited access to the Project.**(1) **Johanna's role was as an expert in zoology and animal life. She sometimes came here just for relaxation: asking HEX to open up Borneo for her so she could watch orang-utans in a familiar yet alien jungle, or entering the Project herself in a _there-but-not-there_ suit**(2)**, and racing with the leopards in the Serengeti and otherwise getting unseen and up close to the animal life. A thought niggled.

_Sed Efrrikka. The man Ruijterman said he was…. Sedefrrikkan? But his accent and manners and background were as Howondalandian as mine._ _But this is locked in the part of the Roundworld that has been made inaccessible to me and HEX will not let me in. I will ask Ponder. _

Johanna had a different aim in mind that morning and did not need to enter the Project. She nodded greeting at several Wizards she knew, and occupied a vacant terminal – HEX was capable of speaking to and interacting with up to twenty researchers at a time from its…_his_…. "mainframe".

"Good morning, HEX"

++Good morning, Miss Smith-Rhodes++. How may I help you today?++

From a pocket, Johanna produced a chocolate wrapper and placed it underneath the scanner eye.

"HEX, lest night a man offered me chocolate."

++That must happen often to you, miss Smith-Rhodes?++

Johanna giggled.

"Perheps not es often as it might! But I wish to esk you ebout this chocolate. Cen you get more of these _marsbars _for me, from the Roundworld?"

The scanning eye studied the wrapper intently, HEX asking her to turn it over so that he could see the other side, Afterwards the thinking machine said

++Yes, I believe I could do that for you. ++But normally, the removal of any artefacts from the Roundworld must be approved by Professor Stibbons, so that imbalance is not caused and anomalies are avoided.++

Johanna said "Please?" in a winning voice. HEX thought for a second.

++I will take it as axiomatic that owing to your special relationship with Professor Stibbons, this request is pre-approved++ One moment, please.++Watch the holding area over there++

Johanna watched. After a few seconds, something glowed and materialised.

* * *

_**Slough, Berkshire, England**_

Agency worker Wayne Davies was pissed off. He'd missed a Saturday night on the piss because he'd been rostered to work a night shift at the chocolate factory. And the miserable bastards were _still_ only paying him not much above minimum wage for it. He strongly suspected the chocolate factory's own staff, doing exactly the same job as he was, were being paid a lot more for their work, and that included unsocial hours pay for the night shift.

Disaffected, surrounded by the background rumble and clatter of machinery and the tank-track noise of conveyor belts, he sealed the flap on the latest box of Mars Bars, the sellotape gun making its usual rippling sound. Again he thought about packing it in and joining the Army, at least they welcomed unskilled labourers with two GCSE's and certainly paid them better than that parasitical bloody employment agency did. Then he reflected that the IRA had killed six squaddies in one go he previous night. It had been in all the papers. Maybe, he thought, bending to transfer the latest in a never-ending stream of cases of Mars Bars to the palette, he was better off on the packing line. The pay might be shit but nobody was actively trying to kill him. He turned to seal the latest box coming off the line. Some of the Agency guys nicked tons of this stuff and sold it on at below-shop prices to compensate for the piss-poor pay. Maybe he might give it a go, vanish a completed case or two?

He completely missed the octarine glow, which those who saw it put down to the sort of fatigue at the end of a night shift that makes colours glow with painful intensity. But as he turned back to the palette, he frowned; he was sure he'd put a box down just a second or two ago, in that spot at the top-left. It wasn't there now. He shrugged, thought an uncharitable thought about his employers, and carried on stacking. Must have been mistaken.

* * *

++You now have one hundred and forty-four mars bars, Miss Smith-Rhodes.++ I apologise for this being the maximum I could extract without causing suspicion.++

"Kiff!" Johanna said, excitedly. Her fingers and taste buds itched to unwrap and eat one. They were definitely _more-ish._

_Be professional, Johanna, _she reminded herself_. This isn't just about you. _

Then she unwittingly chalked up another epoch-making first in the history of the Roundworld Project. Without knowing it, she had become the first woman on the Disc to be explicitly _calorie-conscious._

"HEX" she said, "I do not fully understand the "food information" printed on the wrapper. It seys here that each bar contains three hundred and fifty-six celories of food energy. Cen you explain to me?"

++The calorie is a Roundworld measure of energy, Miss Smith-Rhodes.++ Specifically, it is the energy derived from food intake which powers the human body.++ Scientifically, one calorie is the amount of energy required to raise the temperature of one cubic centimetre of pure water, at normal atmospheric pressure, by one degree centigrade++. The degree centigrade is a measure of heat.++ I will print this information for you as we speak++ As a guideline, the human body requires a set amount of calorific energy each day in order to function++ A hospital patient on full bed-rest may require only fifteen hundred in the course of a day to maintain necessary bodily functions. ++ A woman in peak physical condition, such as yourself, who lives a very active energetic life, may require three thousand five hundred to four thousand calories of food energy per day++The average female need is two thousand five hundred per day.++ Growing adolescent children such as your pupils at the School will need more.++ The equation is simple.++ Consume too few calories and you lose weight.++ Consume more than you expend in physical energy and the excess is stored by the body as adipose tissue.++

HEX paused for a moment.

++You get fat.++

Johanna's face was screwed up into a mask of furious concentration.

"So, HEX, when I take a group of pupils out into the country on a Wilderness Survivel course end everyone inevitably loses weight… thet is down to not eating enough and exerting oneself physically, yesno? And this calorie business offers a scientific end objective wey of measuring whet is needed, so we cen plen more effectively whet retions to cerry?"

++It will have its applications to your work, certainly++. May I deduce that a high-calorie but small and portable chocolate bar, occupying little space and mass, is part of your planning for future outdoor endurance training?++

"You certainly mey! Thenk you, HEX!"

++Miss Smith-Rhodes, this is also applicable to management of animals such as those at the Zoo++ Hex said, as she made to get up.

Johanna considered. Feeding Zoo animals was a hit-and-miss business, depending on intelligent observation and replication of conditions in their natural habitat. If a lion got thin, you gave it a bit more meat; if it got fat, you provided less until things balanced out. But this was something to think about; the idea that an active animal also had its ideal calorific range. She asked HEX to provide further material on measuring the calorific content of food, and to eavesdrop any useful Roundworld research and statistics for her. This was an entirely new concept in a place where good nutrition had always been a case of piling what there is on the plate and hoping you get it right..

As she left, HEX added

++Next week's lesson will be on the importance of _vitamins,_ Miss Smith-Rhodes++

"I shell look forward to it, HEX. Thenk you!"

She shouldered the case of Mars Bars, and left for her next port of call before the Palace started sending people out to look for her. She resisted, with effort, the tempatation to rip the box open and to have a chocolate breakfast, reflecting that if she'd understood HEX correctly, eating more than… (swift mental calculation) _eleven _of the verdammte things would put some fat on her. _Better control yourself, Johanna._

_

* * *

_

Holtack was awoken at eight by the fat sergeant, who triumphantly produced his uniform in a neat linen bag.

"Laundered, repaired and ironed, sir!" he said, triumphantly.

"Oh… and Mr Vimes asks you to sign here."

He produced the manifest of prisoners' belongings that he had first signed last night. Several supplementary items had been added.

_One gigli saw, from right epaulette of jersey._

_One razor blade, in wrapper, located under tunic epaulette._

_The sum of $200, payable on demand from the Federal Reserve Bank of the Uniyted States of America, in bank notes. _

Holtack winced, went_ Damn, damn, damn_, inside_, _and signed for the previously hidden items of his escape and bribery kit. He'd had the same lectures as all other officers on escape and evasion if caught behind enemy lines, and the reminder that it was every British soldier's duty to seek to escape if captured. Creating an escape kit for those circumstances had been _strongly recommended_, and his imagination had been fired by that. Besides, a great-uncle of his had been sent to Colditz, and family legend concerning Uncle Tommy and his exploits there could fill several novels.**(3)** Talking to Great-Uncle Tommy, it had occurred to Holtack that the "escape industry"**(4)** of WW2 might have been sending the wrong message out to trainee officers at the time – _Look, chaps, the way we're fighting this war makes it highly likely you're going to end up a prisoner of war of either Jerry or the Eyeties, so we may as well give you the subconscious message right now that you're going to lose your battles and end up a prisoner. Chaps who've made a home run from there recommend Colditz, although Stalag Luft Three is said to be a four-star camp… oh, and whatever you do, never let yourself be captured by the Japanese as their accommodation is __**really**__ slumming it, by all accounts._

"Got to take you for a shower, sir" Colon said, apologetically. "Got to have you looking your best for the Patrician"

Gathering that there'd be a lot of women officers around, Holtack was allowed to put trousers on, carrying the rest of his uniform items so as to get dressed later. There were indeed a lot of women officers around, in addition to the men, all of whom regarded Holtack with wary curiosity. He noted several of the frightening stone-like creatures, the trolls, and glimpsed another sort of massive humanoid from a distance, this one flowerpot-red and smooth-skinned, oddly robotic. It turned its head to regard Holtack and he glimpsed two fiery-red eyes…

The woman sergeant of the previous night, the blonde one, nodded a friendly greeting as they passed, proceeding down a floor or two to the lowest level of the building. With her was a smaller, slighter, female officer, who exuded vibrant energy. She put Holtack in mind of the Gothic waitresses at that coffee bar Jocasta had taken him to; her short-cut lustrous black hair and petite figure made him think of Liza Minell in _Cabaret._

"well, _hello_!" she breathed, skipping over. "I always thought aliens from another planet would be little grey men with very cold probes. You're pleasantly different!"

Holtack smiled at her.

"I'm certainly different, miss. I make sure to warm the probes up first!"

She burst into delighted laughter, then reached out and stroked his face. Holtack felt something extremely warm and sensual, and carefully held the towel he'd been given closer to his trouser front to conceal his reaction.

"My name's Sally." she said. "And you're Philip, I know. I'm looking forward to interrogating you later"!

"Leave him alone, Sally, He's been having a trying time!" said the blonde.

Sally pouted. "And he can still crack jokes. I like that in a man!"

She blew him a kiss, and Fred Colon said "Come along now, sir"!

The shower was warm but basic. Holtack speculated that somewhere up there was a tank of water that was being heated, and gravity alone was feeding it down to him. However it was done, it was welcome, and, after towelling and dressing, he felt cleaner than he'd done in months. The laundry that had cleaned and repaired his uniform had certainly done a first class job, as the hacked cut across the back of his jacket was barely visible.

After dressing, Sergeant Colon marched him back upstairs again, Holtack sensing that Colon was proud of having brought in the dangerous alien and wanted everyone to know Holtack was his capture.

He was led to the back of the building, to the mews into the coachyard, where Holtack noted that the internal combustion engine was one of many things not evident on this world. It was, judging by the floor-covering and over obvious signs, strictly horsepower. Another of the _trolls_ was industriously shovelling up horse-dung from the yard into a wheelbarrow, this one's hide being patterned in a way that made him look like a brick wall. This one was large by comparison with humans, but had a cheerful air that made him look unintimidating by comparison.

Commander Vimes was waiting with a group of escorting officers. He handed Holtack his helmet with a grunt that might have been "Good morning!", and said "I had the armourers look at that. It's good manufacture, is that, and quite light. And you say this clear _**plastic**_ face cover can stand being hit by a brick?"

"Yes, sir. That scar in it is where a bullet – that is, the projectile from a gonne – came very close to hitting me. I didn't get an opportunity to pick up a replacement from Stores."

"I could do with a hundred or so of these for my lads. It's a good piece of kit."

There was a movement in the crowd.

"Morning, sir!"

"Morning, Hughes. Treating you well, are they?"

"No complaints, sir. It was good of Sarge to send out for curry last night, we appreciated that!"

Fusilier Hughes was looking well and presentably laundered, as was the quiet and thoughtful Ruijterman.

"Anything wrong, Ruijterman? Over and above everything else, I mean."

"No, sir. Just thinking ebout lest night. The..Essessins… brought me in. Like special forces soldiers. I would not like a fight with any of them. The woman in charge was from _Sedefrikka. _She even spoke Afrikaans. So I am thinking thet somewhere on this world there is a Rhodesia. If we cennot return home, there is a place where I might settle down. Thet is comforting."

Holtack nodded, sympathetically. The Southern African had no family ties and commitments on Earth. This might be best for him. But even so…

"I understand, Ruijterman. But please don't lose sight of the fact you still signed on for three years in the British Army, and your first duty is to return there as soon as we can."

"If we can" murmured Hughes.

Vimes, who had recognised a moment where Holtack had to be given time to talk to his men about the situation they were in, stepped forward again.

"If I may intervene, gentlemen. I'd like you to get into the back of the wagon, please. You will find the windows have been blacked out and the door will be locked. This is not meant to be punitive. It's just that my men are at the front of the building fending off some bloody awkward newspaper reporters. I'm assured the black glass means their iconigraphs can't get a picture of you through the wagon windows. Now shall we be getting on? It's bad luck to keep the Patrician busy."

He paused, and added, kindly,

"There is a Rhodesia on this world, soldier. It's a part of the Union of Rimwards Howondaland. The young woman who brought you in last night is from round that way. You'll see her again at court."

A tirade of distant shouting, getting closer and angrier, interrupted him.

"I'll deal with it, sir" said the big captain. He walked off. Behind them, they heard him saying

"Mr Flowerdew, you have my word for it that we will investigate the thefts from your hut at the Park as soon as we are able! But I don't know if you've noticed, but there is a civic emergency in progress? The same applies to the thefts from your washing line, Mrs Snodgress! Yes, I _know_ good blankets are hard to come by and don't grow on trees! Constable, will you lead these people away, _please_? This is supposed to be a tight security cordon to prevent the escape of dangerous prisoners!"

Carrot returned, shaking his head.

"Mr Flowerdew, the head park-keeper at Hide Park, sir. Apparently a quantity of tea, coffee, biscuits and milk were stolen from his personal hut overnight and private papers disturbed He wants us to drop everything and investigate.".

"Probably some vagrant slept there overnight." Vimes mused. "And took liberties with his dirty book collection, too. And the blanket theft?"

"Mrs Snodgress who lives on the Soake, sir. Blankets stolen from her drying line. She's _furious_."

"Hmm. Backs onto the Park. I wonder if there's a connection?"

"Maybe a vagrant who likes a cup of tea wanted to sleep in the warm, sir?" offered Carrot.

"Maybe. But it's not important now, Carrot. Shall we depart?"

* * *

The young woman from around that way had hailed a cab and travelled over to the Chocolate and Confectionary Manufactory of Ankh-Morpork. With a crate of Mars Bars to hand, she had demanded to see Mr Bourneville-Cadbury with a business proposition. The factory manager had listened to her proposal and on his own authority had sent a boy round to wake the Boss, this could be a big contract.

And now Johanna and five or six senior people from the chocolate factory were sitting in the office, eating a Mars Bar each, and reflecting on how easy or otherwise it would be to make these for the local market.

"Definitely _more-ish_" said Mr Snickers, the factory manager.

"Indeed" said Mr Bourneville-Cadbury, the factory owner.

"And you say the Guild of Assassins would buy these in units of ten thousand, as a high-energy compact food ration for Assassins in the field? Most interesting, Miss Smith-Rhodes. But please explain to me how this _calorie_ concept works, again?"

Johanna explained. The factory's senior food technician and product designer was busy separating layers of the confection with a knife.

"A basic nougat. We could make this by melting together all the substandard make, everything that fails quality control.**(5)**5 Topped with a layer of toffee and then rolled in Number Two Chocolate Mix. We could do this _easily,_ sir!"

Johanna smiled. Things were going exactly as she wanted them. This made life so much easier.

"Do not misunderstand me" she said. "Speaking for the Guild, I wish for only the highest-quelity ingredients to go into these bars. No _tellow_. No _horses' hooves_, no bits of cockroach, nothing other than chocolate, sugar, best fet, the _best_. We hev our own lebs and we cen monitor for quelity enything we buy. The Guild would be displeased, if any extraneous ingredients find their wey into eny foodstuffs we purchese for our members!"

_**

* * *

**__**The Shirt Factory, Londonderry. Sunday morning. **_

Church Parades always took place in the main vehicle park with everyone other than essential personnel and permitted minorities excused. In a Welsh regiment, the Sunday church parade was always something special. Today it would be special-plus. Small contingents from the other regiments garrisoning the area were attending as guests, out of a sense of solidarity with the appalling loss the Welch had taken. The commanding officers of the other regiments would be present, along with a stellar turnout of chaplains, including the sad-eyed sergeant-major from the Paras who the Army was sponsoring to train as a rabbi. (The pay-off would be that he would transfer to the Chaplaincy Department and give the Army a term of service as a chaplain; he was already overage for an infantryman, and his secondment to the Chaplaincy was enabling him to soldier on past fifty.)

Journalists and news crews would also be present, as would local politicians amd other dignitaries; Colonel Otway-Williams looked on this as additional insurance against the Provos lobbing a mortar bomb or three over the wall into the packed ranks of an infantry unit. He was fairly sure in normal Sunday services that the IRA would refrain from attacking during a church parade. The bad publicity would be poisonous, for one thing. The fact that a Roman Catholic chaplain was present to serve a short Mass to Catholic soldiers also acted as insurance: the words of the Mass were picked up on a PA system that was audible for several streets around, and for the IRA to offend against its own supporters' religious sensitivities by shooting into or bombing a Mass would be unthinkable.

And none of the locals had ever complained about the Welch' church parade being put out on a PA system. The fact it accommodated a Mass meant people stopped in the streets, joined in and crossed themselves at the right moment. And there was another reason why the locals tolerated it, and in fact were known to whisper to passing patrols on a Monday

_Hey, Taff, the singing yesterday was fantastic! _Or _"Bread of Heaven" always brings a lump to me throat, the way you boys sing it."_

RSM Matthews, knowing the press would be present, had kept the men too busy to think or to get angry by insisting on full bull, just to prove we can still do it and glitter, where it matters. The dark blue infantry berets, almost black, had come out , with the brass cap badge and white plume, and had been brushed and polished to perfection. Where men had them, the collar flashes were being attached – strictly speaking, not to be worn with battledress, but this was a Regimental distinction. Such bandsmen as could be pulled out of medical orderly and nursing work at local hospitals had been collected in to provide musical accompaniment, and were in fact rehearsing down there.

The Colonel had been receiving the sympathies and condolences of his peers all morning, the other colonels thankful it wasn 't them with the ragged hole torn into their ranks, of six dead and twelve with varying degrees of injury. There was even talk that the General Officer Commanding might fly in, but at the moment this was security-classified.

The majority of men in the Welch defined their faith as "noncomformist", which meant the permanent chaplain, Captain the Reverend Doctor Davies, was drawn from a Welsh Presbyterian tradition so as best to serve the Baptist, Methodist, Presbyterian, Lutheran and Other Protestant denominations who were the majority.

Making small-talk with a local minister from a Presbyterian church who had asked to attend, so as to show the respect and support the God-fearing people of Northern Ireland had for the British Army in its time of trial and sorrow, Davies wondered exactly how much the Welsh and Irish Presbyterian traditions had in common: the man's knee-jerk distrust and disdain for Roman Catholicism was not a sentiment Davies shared. As a Protestant, Davies considered all the flim-flam and show and glitter the Catholics loaded their religion with was so much un-necessary baggage and not his sort of religion at all: but he respected many of his Catholic peers and thought, charitably, that if it drew people to God he was not going to look down on it. Well, not _too_ much, anyway. _We all labour in different parts of the same vineyard, reaping in the harvest as we see fit and with the tools we have, for the same employer. Even Greenberg and Cohen. And Duw, young Greenberg's going to need the good Jewish God in the next few months. He has a hard job._

And, as eleven drew nearer, he took a deep breath and looked down from the makeshift pulpit on the back of the three-ton lorry. Maybe eight hundred present. And it's for me to reassure them and send them away with some degree of comfort. _Dear God of the Welsh, do not forsake me now. _

He stepped up to the microphone and surveyed the sea of faces, some doubtful, some cynical, some sad, all needing.

"_Yn eniau Duw Cariad, Iesu Grist a'r Ysbrwyd Glân…_

_In the Names of Father, Son and Holy Spirit..._

_

* * *

_

And as eleven approached in the Patrician's Palace and in the isolation ward of the Lady Sybil, different dramas were playing themselves out.

"It will not be long now. I can feel it. Be ready" said the Watch Igor, his face carefully masking pain. A room full of Igors, with observing Watchmen and Assassins present, readied itself.

And, across the city,

"I'm looking forward to meeting our guests, Drumknott" said the Patrician. "These reports suggest a clever and resourceful young officer, as well as two private soldiers who will both be interesting in their own right. And you say there are three yet to recapture? In teresting! Now shall we proceed to the committee room?"

* * *

**(1) **At Vetinari's firm and urgent request, Assassins were not allowed unfettered access to those parts of human history that involved _gonnes _and related technology. Lord Downey agreed that this was perhaps a very prudent condition on their participation. HEX was therefore programmed to recognise varying levels of access coded by password and Guild occupation.

**(2) **This had caused certain procedural difficulties for Wizards, who are in the main the sort of earnest young men, passionate about their arcane occupation, who are fated either never to get girlfriends or to have a thin time of it in the lists of love. Johanna and Alice had arrived to enter the Project, and without thinking twice about it had started to get undressed, in a matter-of-fact way, so as to get into the there-but-not-there suits. It had then occurred to Ponder Stibbons that as all previous occupants of the Suits had been male, little attention had been paid to screened or private changing areas – well, a chap sometimes necessarily has to strip down to his underpants in front of other chaps. Nothing wrong with that, we're all boys together here, hey? Meanwhile Alice, a woman who had been conditioned not to think about wizards as if they were normal men, just a sort of de-sexed chap in a dress, had almost got down to bra and pants, only to realise twenty or thirty young Wizards were staring – intensely - at her. A scarlet-faced Ponder had hustled them out of line of sight, and had hastily dragged a few screens over for privacy's sake, while Johanna (who knew better about _one _wizard) had stood there suppressing laughter. There is now a dedicated Ladies' Changing Area in the HEM to spare further blushes.

**(3) **Really true. My great-uncle was a submarine officer in WW2 and escaped a sinking sub only to be captured by the Italians, who passed him on to the Germans. After several escape attempts, the Germans sent him to Colditz where he made one or two further escape bids. He's over ninety now and still going strong: family rumour is that he'd give Death a hard time and escape off the back of Binky, just to prove a point.

**(4) **An entire directorate of Military Intelligence was dedicated to teaching British servicemen how to evade capture and escape from captivity. While it had some fine ideas, such as use of Gigli saws and where to hide them, and managed to smuggle escape kit into places like Colditz and private messages out, the valid criticism that could be levelled is that MI9 spent so much time telling people how to behave in captivity and how to escape once there, that it was placing the subconscious message that "_you will lose your battle and be captured_". And that surviving captivity was of more importance than not letting yourself be defeated and captured in the first place…

**(5) **Indeed, this is _exactly_ how the nougat core of a mars bar is made – using waste product that was previously thrown away. In the trade, Mars is known as "the rubbish bar" for this reason.


	24. Octeday and Sunday

_**Slipping Between Worlds 24 - catching up with all the characters after a necessary break**_

Mrs Tachyon might only have had a tangential sense of reality, but she had learnt to trust her instincts, developing a witch-like sense of advanced intuition that enabled her to anticipate unpleasantness and evade it, usually by slipping into a different _when_ or _where. _

On that early Sunday morning, her intuition had allowed the trolley to dictate its own pace and lead the way. There had been an indefinable aura of _sadness_ and _loss_ about it for some days now, and it had worried her. Out here, beyond the city walls and out on the edge of the city where they ate rat, in this barren scrubby field that the growth of a city had somehow bypassed, here where the crater in the ground still bubbled and steamed and sent up acrid black smoke, she had an idea now as to why the trolley was lost and sad and lonely.

"You were born here, weren't you?" she said, gently. "This is where your parents – your mother – were, and all your brothers and sisters. And now they're all gone, apart from you."

The trolley slumped sadly on its wheels and its handle drooped. Somewhere nearby there was a brief punctured squeak, and she remembered that Guilty had gone prowling for what he could find. From somewhere behind them there was a yell.

"Here! You! You're under arrest!"

Mrs Tachyon half-turned to see two of the watchmen bearing down on her. She patted the trolley.

"Won't even let you pay your last respects in peace!" she grumbled. "Time to go!" There was a pattering of smaller feet as Guilty, recognising the signs, leapt into the basket, a small grey corpse hanging from his jaws. The trolley perked up, feeling better about being needed by somebody. There was a white flash, and the ill-asserted trio disappeared.

"Great Om on a sodding turtle!" cursed Constable Haddock. "Bring her in, and Mr Vimes would be one happy man!"

"Where does she sodding _go_ to?" asled Constable Perch, perplexed.

They surveyed the scene together not exactly happy to be standing guard on the wreck of the Hive, but relieved it put them well out of the way of space aliens with lethal advanced weaponry.

* * *

Igor was wreathed in sweat, focusing on the secret techniques the Clan used to suppress and bypass any pain sensation when performing auto-surgery. _Some_ pain had to leak through when, for instance, replacing a severed or crushed limb; to the seasoned Igor, this was necessary as a sign that the nervous system had regenerated, formed new links, and was functioning correctly across the point of repair. Therefore, an Igor (or Igorina) had a pain threshold that was far higher than that of comparable humans. It had been bred into the race for thousands of years. Pain that would cripple a human could be shrugged off with a nonchalant "_it thtingth a bit_".

But as Igor lay there, feeling a sudden snap and a surge of pain he put down to the Thing severing his vagus nerve prior to making its break for freedom, he felt he was being pushed to the edge of what even an Igor could bear. And it was important, so important, to keep a clear head and to be able to objectively record everything that was currently happening to him. He looked round to four other Igors and an Igorina in the room with him. There were also three Assassins, two of whom were ready with a last-ditch weighted net to capture the Thing if it evaded being caught in the large, thick-walled, glass jar a fellow Igor was ready to swing up and over his stomach. One of the other Igors held the glass base to the heavy-duty bell-jar, ready to screw and lock it into place to imprison the creature that was about to be born.

The second bed had been removed from the isolation room. In its place, a magical octogram had been chalked on the bare floorboards and two Wizards were in attendance. The octogram was a copy of the one used at the Zoo Station to imprison the City Eggs in a stasis field, forever locked in time. It would do to further confine the Queen, although Doctor Lawn had insisted that it wasn't going to stay there for ever. Discussions were in progress about moving a highly dangerous new creature to either the Zoo or to one of the Animal Management Unit's high-security habitats for _really_ dangerous creatures.

Igor braced himself against a new surge of pain, a ripping, tearing, pain that suggested from its location that something was hacking through his transverse abdominus muscle group. It would not be long now…

* * *

"_Be ready!" _he hissed, through clenched teeth.

Dafydd Williams awoke to the familiar music of an Army barracks starting its day. A distant bugle was sounding Reveille.

"You awake, Dafydd mon?"

A cup of tea appeared from nowhere. Sergeant Williams swung his legs out of bed and sat up, accepting it with a word of thanks. It was Sergeant Owen, one of his rescuers from the night before.

"First thing we do, mun, is we gets you a uniform that fits and shows you how to wear it, so you do not stand out. The second thing is breakfast. At least today is Octeday. Day of rest, see? You attends church parade, then the rest of the day is light duties and attending to your personal administration."

Williams nodded.

"And off-base passes are granted?"

"We is sergeants, mun! It has occurred to us to show you around, introduce you to this city in daylight, and explain what to do and what not to do, which .gives you a chance to ask around and look around, see if any of your men are at large and we can perhaps hide them here too, till we've all decided what to do for the best. The story is, though mun, the Watch and the Assassins picked up three of them last night. They're in custody at the Watch-house at Pseudopolis Yard."

Williams wondered which three, and how well they were being treated. There was a knock on the door. Owens went to answer the caller. Williams sipped his tea and heard distant words.

"Got you that copy of the _**Times**_ you wanted, sarge. Half-inched one from the Officers' Mess, the Ruperts'll never miss it."

"Thanks, Parry"

"Any time, Sarge."

Sergeant Owen returned with a plank-thick newspaper under his arm. He tipped it out onto the table, scattering magazine and lifestyle supplements.

"Bloody Octeday papers!" he said, searching the pile. "I tell you, mun, the amount of _**cach**_ they see fit to wrap the paper around just because it's Octeday… if you tried to read it all you'd still be reading by Thursday, I tell you! Ah, here's our mun."

Williams peered forward. The newspaper was headed _**The Octeday Times ("**__The Truth Shall Make You Fred__**") **_and had an archaic, fifty or sixty years ago, look to it. A separate text box proclaimed _Famed across the Disc for our investigative reporting! _

"Always the smallest bit of the paper, your actual news!" Owen remarked. "Anyway, let's see what they have to say about last night. They're not always right by any means, but they gets their finger on the pulse more often than most."

Williams and Owen scanned the paper.

_**Amazing rumours abound that the city has been visited by beings from another world!**_

_**Vimes and Downey in unprecedented co-operation – streets swamped with joint Watch and Assassin patrols working together. **_

"_**No Comment" from the Palace. Vetinari tight-lipped, Drumknott evasive. **_

_**The strangely garbed visitors ( artists' impression to right) appear to be armed with lethal weapons of a sort never before seen on our streets. At least three people are dead in incidents in the Shades (full story on page two).**_

_Rumours persist that three "visitors", including the one who killed three citizens, are being held under heavy guard at Pseudopolis Yard and will be presented to Patrician Vetinari later today. Reports suggest others are still at large. If you see them, do not approach them as they are lethal and extremely dangerous! _

_Shopkeeper Mrs Lydia Dustbin (66) of the Soake claimed to have actually served two of these visitors in her grocery shop last night! They bought basic groceries and paid with valid Ankh-Morpokian money. We interviewed Mrs Dustbin later in the evening._

"_Well, they was pleasant enough young lads and I didn't feel in the least bit threatened by them, given some of the sods you see on the street these days. They was dressed odd, in some sort of motley in different colours, but I coulds see they was soldiers of some kind 'cos they was carrying steel helmets with this odd see-through glass panel in the front. _

_I said to them, that don't like much use agin a sword or a pike, and the older one said "you could be right, missus, but we ain't never come up against enemies with swords, see", and I knew straight away they was from Llamedos because of the way they talked. So I asks about the clothes, and one says "camouflage, love, it helps you blend into the earth and the ground, see" and it was all clear then, I took them for some sort of Druids, what with their being from Llamedos and everything. Druids worship the Earth, don't they? Is it to do with them soldiers at the barracks? They had these strange things, like clubs made out of metal, and I asked what they was for, and they said "Essential equipment, love", They struck me as nice boys, if anything! Was I really speaking to beings from a different planet off a spaceship what has just travelled the infinite void of space on its long trek through the stars? Cor!"_

_It is believed the "visitors" seen by Mrs Dustbin had not long previously been involved in an altercation with members of a youth gang led by the notorious Andy Slack. Mr Slack is currently under Watch guard in the Lady Sybil, recovering from broken ribs, contusion and concussion after one of the alien weapons, no doubt set to stun rather than kill, was discharged into his body from close range. A projectile was recovered from the scene, which our reporter managed to glimpse before the Watch threatened to arrest him for malicious loitering. It took the form of a five-inch long cylinder made of solid rubber or similar material…"_

Fusilier Williams was issued a baton round discharger, Sergeant Williams reflected. And to turn over four or five villainous thugs, including one on the local police "most wanted" list, he'd lay bets on the other man being Headbutt Powell, veteran of many a pub fight and running street battle in garrison towns. He looked at the "artist's impression" which was actually not a bad attempt at British Army battledress, right down to the colours. But that wasn't an SLR he was holding… it looked like a rifle, but had a bulbous body with cooling fins and miscellaneous antennae sticking out of it.

A caption said

_We acknowledge the assistance given by the Ankh-Morpork Unidentified Flying Object Association in preparing the artists' impression of the weapon involved. Janice Random__1__**(1)**__ of AMUFORA strongly claims that on the basis of the observed evidence of last night, the aliens are armed with a weapon vastly in advance of anything we can offer. This takes the form of a death-ray projector, seen to project a beam of light that instantly kills, causing the terrible injuries reputed to have been seen on the corpses. At the same time the weapon emits a thunderous but harmless noise designed to frighten and disconcert. This "sonic attack" detracts from the deadly killing ray until it is too late._

**Do not panic! **

_Remember, it is estimated that only six aliens have landed in our city. Three are in custody and Patrician Vetinari has expressed his willingness to speak to them peaceably. A fact to be borne in mind is that, regrettably, the first Discworld citizens to make contact with the aliens were unlicenced thieves whose first instinct was to try and rob them. The alien visitors naturally reacted in self-defence, and it is earnestly to be hoped that this early misunderstanding can be soothed over and forgiven in what is anticipated will be unprecedented political, diplomatic and scientific discussion. _

_**If alien incursion happens in your district, follow these rules….**__**2**__**(2)**_

Sergeant Williams shook his head. _They had better have cleaned those weapons, in that case! _

"We're getting a uniform together for you, mun" said Sergeant Owen. "Soon have you looking like you've been a part of this Regiment all your life!"

_What has brought the aliens here remains unknown, but fingers are pointing at the shadowy and secretive Roundworld Project being carried out at the University. What has leaked out about the Project suggests that by magics yet unknown and new and untried, the Wizards have opened a window into a whole new world and things are capable of slipping between these worlds. We attempted to get a quote from Professor Ponder Stibbons, Dean of Unseen University and Director of the Roundworld Project, but he was unobtainable. It appears he has been called to advise the city authorities on a "damage limitation exercise" connected with the incursion from the alien visitors. An insider at Pseudopolis Yard said he is currently there, having participated in the initial interrogations of the aliens who gave themselves up. _

_

* * *

_

"OK then, take me to your leader!" said Holtack, climbing in the back of the police wagon. Hughes spluttered, and even the saturnine Ruijterman saw the humour of the situation.

A Watchman and a black-cloaked and cowled Assassin followed them in and sat on the bench opposite. After the previous night, both Holtack and Ruijterman had developed a healthy respect for the abilities of Assassins. They had both gathered that Assassins were _at least_ as well trained as SAS troopers, and were equally dedicated to improving and refining their tradecraft at every conceivable opportunity. The Assassin sat opposite Ruijterman, and appeared to be observing him intently. Holtack looked down to the chains and shackles rattling on the floor of the wagon, one end of each was bolted to the floor, the other end terminating in an empty manacle.

_They could have shackled us in, _he thought_, but they didn't. _

The Watchman sat, quiet and unspeaking, regarding Holtack and Hughes. He was dark, swarthy, with the sort of unfortunate chin that always looks ill-shaven however good the barber. He also appeared to have eyes of two different colours. Holtack wondered about that, but eyes aside, there was something oddly familiar about his appearance…

Hughes nudged his officer.

"_Beth sy'n bod_, sir?" he asked, in carefully remembered Welsh. Holtack recalled the files: Hughes was from the industrial belt of Flintshire, close to the English border, where a vanishingly small percentage of people were native Welsh speakers and the most common accent was, if anything, Liverpool Scouse. But Hughes would still have had to do a Welsh language course at school, even in Flint. He then looked at the Watchman. Had his eyes flickered just now? He had had to pass a higher-level course in Welsh as part of his training as an officer in the Regiment. ("_there are only two infantry regiments in the British Army that require their officers to be fluent in a language other than English. One is the Ghurka Rifles. The other is the Royal Welch.") _

He leant forward.

"Did you know there's rust on your armour?" he asked the Watchman, in Welsh.

Yes: his eyes flickered downwards. Then he grinned, sheepishly. He spoke, in Welsh:-

"Now you know. There's no harm in saying. Mr Vimes asked me to ride in the back with you and listen, see, in case you said anything to each other in Llamedosian."

"There you go again with this Llamedos." said Holtack, reverting to English for the benefit of the others.. "Who or what is it? I keep hearing about it and I get an impression it connects to Wales in some obscure way…"

"It's a country, see" said Lance-Constable Williams. "I was born there, mun…"

Meanwhile, Ruijterman smiled grimly at the Assassin opposite him. He spoke, in Afrikaans:

"How many _rand_ should I bet that you understand every word I'm saying?"

The Assassin pulled back his… _her…_ hood and smiled sheepishly.

"Save your _rand, mijnheer_. Commander Vimes sent to the Guild for a Vondalaans-speaker to accompany you. Miss Smith-Rhodes will be at the Palace later, but as she was unavailable earlier, the Guild sent me. "

She extended a hand.

"Heidi van Kruger."

"Hans Ruijterman". he said, taking it. "Miss Smith-Rhodes explained to me about the Vondalaans thing."

At the other end of the wagon, Holtack had divined that Llamedos was a place with a lot of mountains where it rained a lot, and holly and mistletoe grew in profusion, Druids, stone rings, coal mining and steelworking happened, sheep outnumbered people, and Army sergeants were a reliable form of export currency.

"I see" he said, flatly. It was a lot to take in.

The wagon slowed, and from the echo and the new pattern of light and dark that passed over the vehicle suggested an arch and a checkpoint of some kind. Large creaking doors closed behind them; there was a suspicion of camera flashes.

"We're here" said the van Kruger girl. They disembarked from the back of the wagon into a double-ring of Watchmen, crossbows at the ready, pointing in a meaningful way at the three soldiers. Behind them was a second semicircle of red-clad soldiers in vaguely Napoleonic uniforms, also crossbow armed, also pointing them at the prisoners. Heidi van Kruger sighed. Commander Vimes stepped forward.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Welcome to the Patrician's Palace!" he said. "The Watchmen you see in front of you are your immediate escort. The gentlemen in red immediately behind them are soldiers of the Palace Guard Regiment, who are keen to welcome you into their area of jurisdiction. You are about to be taken indoors to participate in an audience with Lord Vetinari, the ruler of this city. You are earnestly enjoined _not_ to attempt escape, since as you can see an awful lot of people are keen to prevent this possibility. And I don't know if you've seen the bloody papers this morning, but it seems there is something of a panic on about your presence in this City. I really doubt you'd get more than fifty yards before you ended up being lynched, as that idiot at the Times has managed to whip up something of a public crisis about invasion from space. People out there are getting scared, and frightened people are capable of doing frightening things."

Vimes looked from face to face to be sure the message had got through to them. He nodded.

"Sergeant Detritus, Constable Bluejohn. Stick very closely to the Lieutenant, please, as I have a feeling he'll be docile in your hands. Miss van Kruger, you're here if the… _sedeffrikan_… soldier needs an interpreter. Would you and Constable Jolson act as his escort? Thank you. Sergeant Angua, you and Sally escort Mr Hughes, would you? Thank you. Now if the rest of you stand aside, prisoners and escort will walk forwards and into the presence of His Lordship. "

A huge stony troll on either side of him, Holtack sighed. _Sunday mornings…._

_

* * *

_

Powell and Williams had returned to their lair in the deep undergrowth and were lying up. Williams had proposed that as this place seems to have newspapers, one of us could try and get hold of a copy and we can see what they're saying about us.

Powell nodded. Despite his essential thuggishness, he had a practical intelligence.

"We will need civvies' clothes, though. You may be sure the _heddlu**(3) **_will be looking for us by now. In these uniforms we are just too conspicuous, Williams mun."

"It's shaping up to be a good drying day, I think Perhaps we can turn over another washing line?"

"Then we can look for other people belonging to this _Thieves' Guild_ and turn their pockets out, as we will surely need more money to survive here."

Powell thoughtfully turned a knuckleduster over in his hand, one of several potentially useful items they had liberated from the groaning bodies of Andy Shank's posse the previous evening. He had also taken the Thieves' Guild membership card belonging to a groaning Jumbo, who at the time had been in a private and intense world of pain all of his very own.

"Just like Owain Glyndwr, isn't it just? Living off the land, escaping the English, and robbing them of what he needed."

Powell grinned. It was an adventure and something they had trained for. He very carefully skirted the question of what they would eventually have to do if they could not make contact with Lieutenant Holtack or Sergeant Williams and the rest of the platoon. For now the weather was warm, the night had been mild, they had their personal weapons, they had local money and some food, a place to lie up, and a source of a brew should they need one. He grinned, and patted his pocket, which contained twenty or thirty stolen teabags. He leant back and let the morning grow older.

* * *

_**The Shirt Factory, Londonderry. Sunday morning.**_

Under the eyes of the TV cameras and press reporters, who had been quietly but firmly corralled into a makeshift press enclosure, the church parade was coming to its close. As often happens in time of tragedy, the back-of-a-lorry pulpit was groaning under the weight of dog-collars who were present. One of these belonged to the local Catholic priest from the Bogside, who was subdued and quiet and, in the opinion of Colonel Otway-Williams, fearful. He had already had a quiet word with Father Flynn: it seemed the man was extremely worried about the possibility of the Welch coming down hard on the local Catholics and taking revenge for the loss of so many men dead and wounded. Otway-Williams had grinned a mirthless little grin and said "The men are professional, father. Their sergeants and officers will be looking out for signs of indiscipline and knocking that sort of behaviour _right_ on the head. You may be assured that the only people on your side with anything to fear will be the ones who planted and detonated that bomb. And we have a pretty good idea where to look."

The Colonel artlessly mentioned a few names, in the context of "How _is_ Paddy Maguire settling in after getting his parole from the Maze, incidentally? It's always hard for an ex-convict to rehabilitate to freedom, or so I'm told. And he was a good man with improvised detonators in his day." He watched the expression on the priest's face, and smiled inside.

_By tomorrow we'll have a picture of who's not around and who's left town in a hurry. That'll make it easier for the RUC. _

On the lorry with the assortment of padres and sky-pilots, as his position demanded, the Colonel noted during prayers that that clever little rabbi was intoning

_Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai __e__ḥ__ad, __Baruch sheim k'vod malchuto l'o-lam va'ed…. _as an undertone to the Christian prayer being led by Dai Davies. Idly and irrelevantly, he noted that there were only two religions represented here, when you got down to brass tacks; Christianity and Judaism. He wondered what it might have been like for a Roman legion, with its multiplicity of gods and goddesses. Did every Roman deity have to have his or her own padre with the Legion, that none would be left out and feel offended? Organising an Army Chaplaincy Department in the Roman Army must have been a bureaucratic nightmare…

He didn't remember afterwards much of what he had said in remembrance of Philip Holtack and the other five men who had died. But what _did_ swell up in his breast was a certain pride at the climax of he service, when eight hundred throats, Welch and guests, had sounded the anthem

_Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah,  
Pilgrim through this barren land.  
I am weak, but Thou art mighty;  
Hold me with Thy powerful hand.  
Bread of Heaven, Bread of Heaven,  
Feed me till I want no more;  
Feed me till I want no more._

_Open now the crystal fountain,  
Whence the healing stream doth flow;  
Let the fire and cloudy pillar  
Lead me all my journey through.  
Strong Deliverer, strong Deliverer,  
Be Thou still my Strength and Shield;  
Be Thou still my Strength and Shield._

"Amazing" the Colonel from the Cameron Highlanders had said, later. "Just bloody amazing. The way they sang it. And half of them were doing the descant. How did they _know_? It's as much as my Jocks can do to sing the one about auntie Mary and her canary, but your lads, John… just a shame it had to be in these circumstances."

Nearly seven hundred Welsh throats had saved something for the end. After two verses of comparative restraint, the Regiment said its goodbye to its dead and sang them, loudly and with love, into Heaven.

_When I tread the verge of Jordan,  
Bid my anxious fears subside;  
Death of deaths, and hell's destruction,  
Land me safe on Canaan's side.  
Songs of praises, songs of praises,  
I will ever give to Thee;  
I will ever give to Thee._

And the echoes died away and the main part of the service ended, leaving Father Conway to administer Mass to the small residue of Roman Catholic soldiers. This too was broadcast by PA system, as always, into the surrounding Bogside _to fuck up their heads, _as a Catholic Welshman gleefully put it. "It's a Catholic service, so they have to respect it. But it's by a Catholic priest in a British Army uniform for British soldiers. So what the fuck do they do? They're doomed both ways. Ignore it and it's insulting their own religion. Join in and it's giving support to the hated Brit. But I tell you what, look over that fence while it's going on and you'll see them looking both ways before they cross themselves or do an "amen"!"

Eight hundred soldiers fell out, the general feeling being an odd sort of comfort, administered by the Army according to its own terms of reference and given a uniquely Welsh twist. There was still a grief and a sadness in the air; that could not be taken away. But they were still alive. And as the remnant of Seven Platoon packed up to leave for Wales, home and sanity, they prepared for another day in Stroke City. And if they were spared, for the day after that too, just men and women in uniform doing the job that was in front of them.

* * *

**(1) **On Earth, a leading light in UFO research and a member of BUFORA is one Jenny Randles, who is actually very intelligent, sharp, academically inclined, perfectly pleasant and not at all barking mad or socially maladjusted. I've met her. (Will that do, Jen?)

**(2) **Ok. So a little Michael Moorcock and Hawkwind in the DikMik era is creeping in… if you are making love it is imperative to bring both bodies to orgasm simultaneously...

**(3) _Heddlu (pron. heth-lee) - _**Welsh. For "Police". Often shortened to "hedd". Possibly the origin of the slang term "heat" for police pursuit - ie, "the heat is on". , or as used in many a Bob Dylan song to decry government interference with the human right to smoke dope.


	25. The Octeday Times

_**Slipping Between Worlds 25**_

This is not eactly as I wanted it. BT are "upgrading" our Broadband, which as we all know means putting up with a slow sluggish service akin to he worst days of dial-up, until it all settles down. When it does, I'll tidy this up!

_**The Isolation Ward, the Lady Sybil Free Hospital, Octeday. **_

Eleven o'clock came and passed, with a marked absence of anything erupting from the stomach of the Watch Igor, who laid on the bed in a fine film of sweat, his body rigid from the effort of controlling and channelling the pain..

"It is coming" he croaked. "Be ready!"

Igorina mopped his brow, forcing the treasonable suspicion out of her mind that all this might just be a phantom pregnancy. The mixed Igors, Assassins and Wizards in the room adopted even more ready positions.

"I don't suppose" an Assassin quipped, trying unsuccessfully to lighten the atmosphere, "that you might have to _induce_ the birth?"

The Igors turned and glared at him. Unheeded in the background, a hospital orderly was sweeping the corridor floor, lingering in the doorway to try to lift a tricky bit gathering in the base of the doorframe where it met the lino.

At his request, she lifted a glass of water to Igor's mouth to ease his dry throat. And then it happened. She looked down and saw the distension that was twisting the flat plane of his abdomen into a new and sinister dimension.

_And it was moving… just under his skin as if it was seeking the best way out._

"_Where's that bell jar?" _she screamed._ "It's happening!"_

In Igorina's memory, although the subsequent events maybe only lasted for about ninety seconds, she would evermore see them drawn out to hours and even days of frozen slow-motion images.

Igor suddenly went very rigid and arched his back high off the bed. He was screaming through clenched jaws, and normally, however acute the pain, Igors never allow it to show. _That must be agonising, _Igorina thought_. _She watched the obscene thing tenting his abdomen as if poising itself for one last break for freedom, mush as a bird or alligator will pause before the last exertion that breaks the egg.

Almost immediately, the Igors standing to either side of the bed slammed the bell jar down firmly and leant their weight on it. Not a moment too soon, as it turned out.

There was a ripping noise as of flesh and muscle tearing and snapping. All Igors hear something like this quite often; such sounds are not uncommon in the profession of Assassination;**(1) **_1_and if a Wizard ever hears anything similar, it usually means he's screwed up big-time with the manifesting demon or has landed in the Dungeon Dimensions.

It was what accompanied the sound that was disconcerting. _Something _vaguely reptilian and alive was seen to leap into the bell-jar with a hiss of malice and rage. But it was obscured by the fountaining eruption of blood and shredded tissue which liberally splashed all bystanders close to the bed. At this point, Igor mercifully lost consciousness, and Igorina transferred her attention to the Thing.

"_It's trying to get out!" _she screamed_. "Get that jar sealed! Hurry!"_

Indeed, mobile clawed paws were trying to squeeze and slither out from under the edge of the jar. The two Igors holding the jar down looked at each other uncertainly. They both saw he problem: the moment they lifted the jar so that its base could be fixed on from underneath, the creature they were seeking to capture would seize the moment to escape. What should they do? Then a fourth Igor, one tasked with screwing the base onto the jar, nodded and took a deep breath.

"If thith doesth not work" he said to the two Assassins with the net, "then you mutht be ready to trap it."

The Assassins nodded. The new Igor stepped forward.

"Lift the jar." He said to the first two Igors. "Ready… now!"

The new Igor darted forwards and reached into the jar, grasping the Thing in both hands. Igorina smelt a familiar chemical smell and despite herself, her stomach turned. That smelt like… surely not… was that its _blood_? Or just the amniotic fluid?

The Thing-holding Igor ordered "Invert the jar. Now. I have it thafely held. Igor, thtand by with the bathe!"

Sweat and obvious pain showed on the Igor's face. He spoke, through gritted teeth:

"I believe when thith ith all over, I will require a hand. Or two."

Acrid foul vapour was rising from the jar. One of the Assassins caught a whiff and gagged. Igorina looked up from performing basic stabilising surgery on Igor – tying and clamping shut up a couple of spurting arteries and gushing veins prior to his pre-negotiated rebuild – and uncharacteristic horror rose in her. She snapped at herself to pull herself together. She was an Igor. She worked for the Assassins' Guild. On both counts she was a veteran of surgical horror stories. But watching a fellow Igor's hands gradually being eaten to nothing by the acid the Thing was exuding…

"The lid! Get it on! Now!" screamed the Igor, as the last of his hands and upper forearms disintegrated. A fellow Igor quickly screwed the lid into place and wired it tightly on for security. In the wreckage of acid and bodily parts, smeared with the blood of the watch Igor, the Thing leapt and screamed and battered at the inside of the glass. The Igor who had sacrificed his hands and arms to get it in there staggered and reeled back.

"Now if somebody could attend to my armth? I have my great-uncle Igor's handth and armth on ithe down in the thellar. I am thorry that in the thircumthtantheth, I am unable to attach them mythelf."

He nodded to the wizards.

"It ith down to you now, gentlemen." Then he passed out.

The two wizards gingerly manoeuvred the bell-jar and its occupant onto the centre of the octogram. A spell was completed and two wands made circles and patterns of octarine fire in the air. And then all was silence.

"One stomach, now!" demanded Igorina. "And have a spleen and a right kidney on standby!" She detailed two of the Igors to help her rebuild Igor. The third and youngest was allowed to do the re-attachment operation on the armless Igor, a simple enough task by Igor standards. The Assassins went to report to Lord Downey, and the wizards, trying not to look at the blood and gore of the active Igoring around them, speculated on how to get this bloody Thing across the city to the Zoo to join the others.

For a moment, the two Wizards looked out across Attic Bee Street.

"Seems like there's a lot of people out there, for an Octeday." one remarked.

"And all heading out towards the city gates, too. Wonder what the fuss is about? "

"Maybe there's something in the _**Times.**_ We've been cooped up in here since last night, remember? Haven't seen a newspaper in _ages. _We'll try to grab one on the way out."

* * *

At Spioenkoep Barracks, Sergeant Williams was getting used to what he hoped would be his temporary new uniform. He'd seen preserved examples in the Regimental Museum of what the Regiment had worn in the Peninsula, around 1812, but never in his wildest dreams had he ever expected to actually _wear _one.

"Not bad, mun!" said Sergeant Owen, stepping back to admire. "Not bad at all! You looks like one of us now, and most important, you looks like you has been wearing that uniform for some time. It is not as if it's brand-new off the quarterbloke's shelves, as nothing stands out more!"

That was true: the uniform items had been borrowed piecemeal from various Sergeants who were in on the secret, and everything had the worn-in look of long-ago-issued equipment to it. The only thing Williams had been allowed to keep from twentieth century Britain was his underwear and his boots: the general assessment being that the boots were better than anything we can make, they is broken into your feet, which is an important consideration for marching in them, and with the gaiters, nobody is going to notice they looks slightly wrong.

Williams marched out with them, contemplating on how constricting all the successive layers of uniform were, in comparison to the light and roomy battledress he was used to, and he wondered how a man was expected to fight a war dressed like this. Then he recalled what he knew about Napoleonic infantry tactics – solid blocks of men, blasting each other with volley fire at suicidally short ranges – and shuddered, That was not a war for individual or even section-level manoeuvre. It was, at least in the set-piece battles, a war of attrition, of whose side broke first or ultimately lost less men.

"Just one last little formality" Sergeant Owen remarked. "Mr Dickens wants to see you. He knows, he's been briefed, like, but he still wants to see you for himself. Just treat him like you would your own RSM, and you'll get on fine!"

Williams was ushered into a well-appointed Army quarter, of a sort that would normally be occupied only by a very high-ranking officer. A soldier-servant was engaged in brushing and cleaning a ceremonial uniform. Sitting opposite him, a large-built man in shirt, braces and stockinged feet was industriously polishing a pair of boots to a perfectly bulled shine. He was grey-haired, with a magnificent moustache that had been oiled and trained into perfectly symmetrical points.

"The new Sergeant Williams, Mr Dickens." said Owen.

The man cleaning boots looked up and acknowledged him with a nod.

"You go and get yourself a smoko, Jenkins" he said to his batman. "I have personal business with the new Sergeant yere and I do not want you listening in at the door."

The batman gratefully departed, first hanging up the uniform jacket. Sergeant Owen remained, guarding the doorway.

RSM Dickens regarded Williams thoughtfully for a few seconds. Williams bore the searching gaze with equanimity, but realised this was another test.

_The Regimental Sergeant Major, whether in other armies he is called the Master Sergeant, the Gunnery Sergeant, the Stabshauptfeldwebel, the Primus Pilum, der Speiss, and so on, is the most senior enlisted soldier in the Regiment. He is quite possibly one of the two most powerful men in any Army unit. He is the __**primus inter pares**__, the most senior and experienced NCO, to whom all other sergeants and warrant officers defer. In the British Army, it is rumoured that God Himself sits at the RSM's right hand and takes instructions from him. _

Dickens nodded, a gesture of authority and confidence.

"I've already heard about you from my Sergeants." he said. "I yave no reason to doubt their judgement, but for the sake of my yown peace of mind I decided I should like to see you for myself. Now stand easy, boy, this is not formal. In fact, you sit down and I'll listen to your story from your own lips while I polish these yere boots for Church Parade. I has _always _bulled my own boots, see, and I sees no reason to stop now, much to the disgust of Jenkins."

Sergeant Williams related his tale again, and the old RSM nodded, occasionally asking him to repeat a point or explain a reference.

"I year from the morning paper that people out there thinks we has been invaded from space." he said, conversationally. "One of them Wizards once told me that the reason they call it _Space_ is because there's an awful lot of it out there. Your normal ways of measuring time passing just do not work, too small see, and you has to make up new ways of measuring it in very much bigger pieces. He said as how there are billions of light-years between here and the nearest star. That's the amount of space light covers in a year, see.**(2) **And apparently you have to wrap up warm out there, it gets cold, see. And you needs some way of being able to breathe and replace the air you uses up. And what drives the spacewagon you is travelling in?"

Dickens paused, spat on the rag, and began bulling up another stubborn spot.

"That's what I likes about bulling my own boots. A job where a man can think while he's working. "

He looked up and scrutinised Williams.

"What I _think_ is that an alien race would have to be very clever indeed to devise ships that can do all that and bring an army by here to invade us. I do not think a people like that would let it all go off half-cock by dropping a Rup…a young gentleman – and five soldiers, one of whom is admittedly a Sergeant, into a new foreign place where they know nothing, they stand out a mile, and in any case are scattered all over a city as large as this one. And for them to be Llamedosian in all but name, all but one, means I suspects we is looking at a home which is closer to us than we think. And when the sixth of those men is a Howondalandian Boor, that is one coincidence too many. "

Dickens directed another long hard stare. Williams held it, with an effort.

"Yet I hears that the ones they have captured, up at the Yard, jumped a mile when they saw trolls, like they was seeing them for the first time. So you cannot be from _this_ world. Everyone here knows trolls, mun!"

"I don't" queried Williams. "They're a kind of giant?"

Dickens shook his head.

"My own world has legends of huge creatures living in the mountains that cannot be seen in daylight."

"Close"

"But they never really existed? They're just a myth?"

"Myths is closer to truth than you think, boyo. But you'll see later. And when you do see I'll be watching you!"

Dickens put the boot down. It gleamed like polished flawless jet.

"That's as good as perfect. Now, Sergeant Williams, I yave satisfied myself that you is no threat to us. Your weapon is locked safely away and you have no access to it. You is Llamedosian, or as good as. You is a sergeant. I needs good sergeants, you can never get enough. I am prepared to extend to you the hospitality of this yere Regiment for as long as you need it, where by way of return you will discharge the duties of a sergeant. You have been shown how to wear the uniform. You will be shown the weapons you use and the tactics (Dickens almost sneered) we employ. You is up to speed on the foot drill, but you may perhaps need informal tutoring on weapons and other drills. Does your army use bugle calls and drums to convey orders? Then you will need to refresh yourself on those. But you is a sergeant. You knows all the tunes or you would still be a Corporal. You just needs to learn some new words. And what do you sing? Tenor? Tidy!"

Dickens offered his hand. Williams took it.

"All the sergeants in this unit will know who you is, but they will not tell. One or two of the brighter corporals, the ones who hope one day to become sergeants, will also know. But their silence can be relied on. For now, I think, you is a supernumerary sergeant, just posted here, under my personal supervision. Welcome to the regiment, mun!"

* * *

Work on re-assembling two Igors was well underway. To purely human eyes, both had suffered hideous maiming injuries., To Igorina's eyes, it was an interesting professional challenge. As she removed old tissue damaged beyond reasonable re-use, and prepared for stitching a new stomach and lower oesophagus into place whilst remembering to maintain total integrity at the diaphragmic hiatus, she took a second or two to regard the Queen, locked into baleful open-mouthed stasis inside a red-smeared glass jar. The thing was slick-smooth, had two pin-prick but evil eyes, a mouth full of needle-sharp teeth caught in the act of dripping acid, vestigial forelimbs, and a long tapering tail, also far too smooth, slick and unformed. The whole effect was of a carnivorous dinosaur foetus, halfway between the egg and the emergent offspring, crossed with some nightmarish insect.

One of the two Wizards in the room, hitherto locked to Igorina's surgical work with nauseated fascination, frowned.

"I think I know where these things originally came from" he said, thoughtfully. It baffled us the last time they were a threat. They came out of seemingly nowhere."

"Well, yes. Save it for Mr Ridcully, would you, and work out the problem of how we're going to safely get it back to the University with all this mob on the streets" said the other. "I'm damn sure there weren't this many people out here an hour ago."

"They can't _**all**_ be going to temples and things." said the first Wizard. They're moving in the right direction for God Street but I'm damn sure they're not going to worship. Stone the bloody crows, some of 'em have got red stars painted on their foreheads!"

"And those placards…"

_AMUFORA PROTESTS GOVERNMENT COVER-UP ON ALIENS!_

_SPACE ALIENS, COME DOWN TO DISC AND RULE US WISELY…_

_CALLING OCCUPNATS OF NITERPLNATERY CRAFT – WE ARE YOUR FRIENDS! _**(3)**

_I'VE GRABBED MY THINGS – WILL YOU TAKE ME HOME? _

_MEN IN BLACK – WILL YOU SAY "DON'T REPORT THIS!" NOW! WE'VE FOUND THE SAUCER NEWS! _

"Oh." said the second wizard, disgustedly. "Saucer-nuts."

* * *

Holtack and the two Fusilers had been marched under escort into a large, central, and easily-guarded room in the Palace. There had been a moment of levity where the two trolls escorting him had found that the main doorway was too narrow for two trolls and the prisoner to enter all at once. They had looked at each other in perplexity – they had been given orders to escort the dangerous and resourceful prisoner by sticking to either side of him like glue. The three milled around on the outer side of the door, the trolls unsure of what to do next, Holtack leaving it entirely up to them as to how to resolve a complex spatial problem.

_They may be huge, lumbering and incredibly strong, but these stone-men are not very bright at all. _Holtack reflected, as the rest of the prisoners and escorts were caught up in the congestion behind. _This may be worth knowing._

"What's the hold-up, sir?" asked Hughes, who was coming up behind, flanked by , Holtack could not help reflecting, the two good-lookers. "Oh – and I don't fancy the look of yours much, sir."

"Sergeant Detritus has come up against the sort of knotty little problem they give you in IQ tests, Fusilier." Holtack said. "How to manipulate a three-dimensional object in space until it fits an aperture apparently too small for it."

"Oh, good _grief_!" snarled Sergeant Angua, making the universal palm-slap-forehead gesture. Hoping he was unseen, Holtack nodded at a half-open corridor window. Hughes' eyes followed.

_While they're distracted? Purely for the Hell of it? _

And then the other policewoman, Sally Bowles out of Cabaret, was suddenly sitting on the sill, grinning at him and wagging a reproving finger in the universal gesture for "naughty!" Holtack was impressed; he'd barely signalled his intentions and he hadn't even seen her move. He sighed, and stepped forwards.

"After you, gentlemen?" he offered, courteously bowing the trolls on. . "Or perhaps.."

He stepped through the door and took a pace forward. There was a distant "_twang!"_ and a feathered bolt thudded into the carpeted floor a foot or so in front of his feet. Reflexively, he held up his hands.

"_Cease fire_!" a voice called. Followed by _Grimethorpe, you horrible idle little man! That was a bloody negligient discharge! Lordship wants those people alive so as to talk to them! You is on a __**charge**__! _The harmonics said "annoyed sergeant-major", even this far away.

Holtack was aware a buzz of conversation had stopped. He looked up. The upper gallery running around the…. _Throne Room?_... was lined with soldiers, in the same Napoleonic-era shakos and red jackets with white cross-webbing. They were all crossbow-armed.

But downstairs, the aisle had been set out with chairs, which were arranged in semicircular lines. They were fast being occupied, and Holtack estimated that perhaps a hundred people would be in attendance. Those that had made it early looked like very well-off dignitaries, maybe the nobility of this city-state. There were some of the black-clad Assassins, and ye gods! Was that a circus clown? With the corpse-like white face and the minimal slap?

And a group of unmistakeably high-ranking Army officers, with glitter, medal and braid dripping off their uniforms, wearing sashes and stars that betokened their membership of God-knows-what (_do they do a King's Honours' List here?) . _most of them looked like they'd stepped out of a Victorian portrait gallery at the Army Museum, or private portraits at the big grand country homes. Faces red with too much port, one with a drinker's strawberry nose, another long and lean with piercing ice-blue eyes, who even wore a cavalry officer's leopardskin shadrack thrown over one shoulder. _He reminds me of… _And then there were the other two officers, the ones with less braid and medals, whose uniforms looked like working ones, one of whom even had a dark smear of oil down one sleeve. Compared to the others, who radiated bombast and pride, these two had a bright practical intelligence about them. They would be the ones to watch, then.

A tall thin Victorian-looking clerk in a frock-coat walked over to him.

"Just waiting for my escort!" Holtack said, brightly. "Philip Holtack, Lieutenant, Royal Welch. And you are?"

"Rufus Drumknott, personal secretary to Lord Vetinari. This is all…"

"There was a rending creaking crash from behind them as the doorframe gave up and the two trolls took a direct route to resolving a complex spatial puzzle in three dimensions.

"…highly irregular."

"Sorry about dat, sir. Door not wide enough!" announced Detritus, Blujohn lumbering after him.

"Glad you could both join me, gentlemen!" said Holtack, happily. He turned to Drumknott. "Where do you want me?"

A scowling Commander Vimes pushed his way forward.

"Sorry about that, Rufus. Send the repair bill to Ramkin Manor, as usual."

"I will instruct the builders, Sir Samuel. If your three, ah, _visitors_, would care to follow me? A _minimal_ escort should suffice!"

Drumknott led them to three chairs, set out in front of the great semi-circle of seats which Holtack discovered had been reserved for City councillors, civic leaders, and Guild heads as well as several witnesses to the previous night's affairs. On behalf of his men, he saluted the bloc of Army officers, as convention dictated, receiving a languid touch to the helmet from the dandy-looking one in the leopardskin hussar coat. Of the two dangerous-looking ones, the elder and more senior of the two – Holtack could now read his rank badge, three pips and a crown, making him a Brigadier4**(4) **- stood up and formally returned the salute. He didn't have to stand up for a mere Lieutenant, but Holtack respected the courtesy.

And then as he turned to take his designated seat, several other visual impressions imprinted themselves. Sitting among the block of black-clad Assassins, in the vaguely Edwardian widow's weeds he'd seen in the dream, there was…

"_Alice?" _he said, disbelievingly.

"_Alice Band?_ Did you cross over too?"

And sitting next to her, the red-haired girl – _woman _– with the freckles. Just as he'd seen her in that dream. Wearing what looked like Boer irregular soldier's uniform, circa 1900. He'd glimpsed her last night, in the throng at the Yard. Ruijterman had said an Afrikaaner woman had talked him down from that church dome where he'd landed, and brought him in… (_"A friendly voice from Home, sir. How could I not heve followed her edvice?")_

Alice blinked, and looked very surprised.

"You have the better of me, sir. I must confess I only know your name because you announced yourself to Mr Drumknott in the doorway. I have never seen you before… well, very recently. And while I have visited what I suspect is your world, I never saw you there, either."

"Engrossing though this meeting is to watch, I regret it must leave a few questions at present unanswered." somebody said, in a low voice that nevertheless had carrying power and measured authority.

"Miss Band, Lieutenant Holtack, later on we will endeavour to answer your questions. I'm sure you both have many. But I would like to formally commence these proceedings."

Holtack looked across to a slender figure in black, leaning on a sliver-topped cane, who had clearly entered unannounced: he had not been there a moment ago, at the plain wooden seat at the foot of steps leading up to a golden throne.

Holtack blinked. _And the reigning steward of Gondor ruled the kingdom in the name of the King, pronouncing judgement from a plain wooden throne set on the lowest step…_

Holtack turned and saluted him, throwing up his best parade ground salute. The man blinked, just once, then nodded in return.

"I think we may be informal, Lieutenant." Vetinari said. "You knew who I am, by the way?"

"Your face _is_ on the currency, sir." Holtack reminded him.

"Of course. And on the stamps. I was forgetting."

Vetinari motioned Holtack to his seat, then addressed the room.

"We are here to formerly investigate the events of the last twenty-four hours and to allow the, ah, visitors who landed in our City to explain themselves and their actions in a way which satisfies both justice and law. I need hardly remind you all that this arraignment is being conducted under conditions of total secrecy, and not a word is to be mentioned outside these walls. You are all here either because you were witnesses, or because it is considered that you might have something of objective value to add to the records. We will commence, I think by having our visitors formally identified and recognised by the court."

And the first copies of the _**Octeday Times**_ arrived in Quirm, Pseudopolis, and the Stos. The coachmen who delivered them cheerfully replied to the obvious questions with remarks like

_Oh, it seemed quiet enough when I left this morning. Bit of a panic on last night, though. People seeing people in these weird uniforms and space helmets all over town. _

_Well, Stoneface has stopped all Watch leave and called up the specials, that I do know. The Assassins are also recalling everyone they've got to Ankh-Morpork. Some sort of really big fuss is on at the Patrician's Palace, the guards have sealed it down tight, I hear crossbows were fired…_

_Yeah, some Thief got fried alive on one of their deadly ray-guns, I know that for a fact. But it's all calm. For the moment._

By noon, the first refugees were on their way out of the big cities, fearfully watching the skies for alien craft.

* * *

**(1) **But, as Miss Alice Band would point out, this generally means that a very clumsy Assassin indeed has just fouled up what might otherwise have been a very stylish and silent inhumation. That degree of rending, crunching, and general cartilaginous noise is more suited to a backstreet psychopath than to a skilled and dedicated master of the Dark Art.

**(2) **(These are light-years based on the far more sluggish speed of _**Discworld**_ light, remember. At some point I'll do the maths. But fdon't hold your breath.

**(3) **Spot the song-lyrics… in order, The Carpenters, "_Calling Occupants_…", Peter Gabriel "_Salsbury Hill_", and the Blue Öyster Cult "_Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence_"

**(4) **For American readers – British Army Brigadier more or less equals a one-star General.


	26. The Slight Disagreement Of The Worlds

_**Slipping Between Worlds 26**_

_Brassed off... another short-term contract comes to an end and I'm looking for work again. I took it out on the story and this emerged. _

_**The 23/35**__**th**__** Llamedosian Regiment. Church Parade. **_

Sergeant Williams was beginning to feel quite at home in the familiar and reassuring bustle of an Army regiment in peacetime barracks. This was, with a small "w", his world, although not exactly _on_ his World. He walked with RSM Dickens through the usual Sunday throng of men going about light duties, receiving what he knew to be the guardedly curious stares of private soldiers to an unfamiliar sergeant who had most probably just been posted in. He knew the score: they were idly wondering what sort of a bastard the new three-striper would be, and where he'd be posted to. Finding familiarity all around him despite the strange and chafing uniforms, Williams grinned.

Dickens received salutes with equanimity, stopping once to talk to a group of soldiers who were performing maintenance work on a supply wagon, advising them to wrap it up in the next ten minutes or so as Church Parade was about to begin, you would not want to be late now, would you?

And then there was a rumbling in the distance.

"Better stand back now, sergeant." the RSM advised him. "These boys stop for no-one once they've worked up a pace. Not even me!"

They stood back off he service road. Williams goggled. The…_men?_ coming towards them must have stood a good eight feet tall and were almost as broad. Something odd about their uniforms… something odd about them, in fact. He risked a sideways glance towards Dickens, who was watching him, a smile playing underneath the military moustache.

_Ah. I'm being tested. Show no reaction. To the men around you, this is normal and workaday. Nothing to react to, except they're all getting off the road at double-time. _

Each of the four giants was carrying a large irregular block of stone, about ten feet tall by three or four square, one at each corner. They were handling it one at each corner by one hand… paw?... as if loads like this were commonplace. Looking closely, Williams observed that their uniforms were actually painted on: red above the waist, dark blue beneath. They wore some sort of shorts in hard-wearing canvas, to a military cut, and, absurdly, had human-sized shakos tied to their heads. Williams was not a man given to science-fiction, but they looked like a better-tempered Incredible Hulk who had sought a makeover from plain green. Four parties of four Hulks were each lugging a large stone in the direction of the parade square. A seventeenth marched behind, this one with yellow-gold sergeants' stripes _carved?_ into his arms.

"_Pick dat pace up, boys, or we is late for the Padre!" _the Hulk-sergeant boomed. His accent was a deep gravelly Llamedosian. He recognised and saluted Dickens.

"Step over by yere a second, would you, Sergeant Craig-y-don?" he requested.

The Hulk-sergeant grinned and marched over.

"Got somebody here I'd like you to meet. This is Sergeant Williams, just arrived from Home. Sergeant, this is Sergeant Craig-Y-Don, from our Heavy Support Company. Sergeant of trolls, he yis!"

_Ah. So __**these**__ are trolls. _

Williams gingerly took the offered paw, which felt like a sack of warm walnuts. He felt the troll regarding him gravely.

"Pleased to meet you, sergeant"

"Likewise!" the troll boomed. "We can buy yeach other a beer later, Sergeant? I yave these trolls to supervise. Setting up the Padre's portable field altar, see."

He nodded to the tons of stone that was passing.

"And you are the portability." Williams said, weakly. The troll sergeant grinned.

"Got it in one, sergeant!"

"See you in the mess later, Craggy-boy" said Dickens.

The troll nodded, and stomped back to his detail.

_By der not-right! One, two, many, lots! One, two, many, lots!"_

"Our trolls." Dickens said. "Lovely boys, just lovely. They is our field pioneers, our bridge-builders, our road-makers if we has to. By treaty we may only use them in action against other trolls, but they has so many uses calling for brute force and strength. The reliable ones is also our regimental police. If a fight begins in a civvies pub, see. Craggy there has his understanding with Sergeant Detritius of the city police, if any of the boys misbehave and let the old molten sulphur go to their heads in the troll bars in town. And all of them good Llamedosian trolls from the high mountains."

"Is their officer a troll?" Williams asked, trying to subdue the mental picture of a huge troll officer making small-talk with Mrs Otway-Williams in the Officers' Mess over a gin and tonic in the bar.

"Standing orders say troll soldiers must be officered by a human gentleman" Dickens said, shaking his head. "That's Captain Ridgeway-Jones. Speaks good Trollish and bright enough to let Craggy do most of the work."

Noise of jangling metalwork and marching boots could be heard.

"And now these is our _other _soldiers. Proud to have them, too!"

And a platoon of…. _very short_…. soldiers came around the corner. None were taller than four feet, the average height being around three foot six or slightly taller. They wore chainmail shirts, which in deference to the Regiment had been either enamelled in red or somehow metal-plated. They were also bearded and carried axes at the port.

"Our skirmish companies." Dickens explained.

Williams tried hard to look nonchalant. _In the old days, in time of great need, we used to raise Bantam Battalions, of men who were otherwise too small and short to make the peacetime height requirement. Stroppy little fighters, too. But surely this is overdoing it? _

"We recruits dwarfs, see, by treaty with the Low King. It does help that he's a Llamedos boy himself, King Rhys. We gets the second and third sons who are not going to inherit the family mine, we gives them a sound military training and maybe a bit of active service, and they goes back as trained experienced men to King Rhys, who he can rely on for his army. It all works out, see."

"Er… excused shaving, are they?"

"You try to make them! We yad a young officer here who was not up to speed with dwarf culture, one of the Rusts, and he tried to enforce shaving."

Dickens made a sad tutting noise.

"We yad us a mutiny, see, and Captain Rust did not last long as a human officer in charge of dwarfs. There has to be respect, see, and the Rust family is loud at demanding it for themselves. They have just not got the knack of giving it to others where it is called for. Unfortunately, a lot of them becomes Army officers and we sergeants has to manage that."

Williams nodded and was just about to add that he'd seen one or two himself, when the first company of Dwarfs swept past them, their sergeant calling for "Eyes Right!" as he saluted.

Dickens nodded.

"A good lad, Sergeant ap Ifor" he said. "You will get to like those lovely boys, Sergeant. Just wait and see!"

"They're used as skirmishers?"

Williams had a vague memory that the Napoleonic infantry line was preceded by a line of light infantry, tasked with tripping any ambushes and scouting ahead for trouble.

"They go ahead and clears the way, aye. Not much wants to stick around a line of Dwarfs with those axes!"

"I can believe it!"

Dickens appeared to sniff the air.

"Well, we'd better take our places with HQ Company, mun. Service is about to start and the Regiment is marching into position on the square. I has to be there and watch, see it's done right."

It was the RSM's job, after all.

"Er… Mr Dickens, you talked about the padre's field altar just now.."

"The portable field altar what all those trolls was carrying to the square?"

_The one that took sixteen enormous trolls to port, yes…_

"What religion are you?"

Dickens clapped Williams on the back.

"Reformed Druidism, boy. You'll get the hang of it when you've seen the service!"

"Oh.." Williams said. It was a long way from the austere grey stone chapel that gave Capel Curig its name, and from the strict-rule Sabbatarian Christianity of home.

He was about to get further proof of exactly how far away he was from home.

* * *

Powell and Williams hit on a plan in the early Sunday morning. They had watched with some suppressed glee as the Parkie, full of self-importance and pomp, had stomped up to his personal hut, a short, broad man with a meticulously trimmed moustache under his peaked cap of office. A few minutes later, he was running out again, puce with rage, demanding of a luckless underkeeper to know who the bloody Hells had been in my bloody hut, the thieving bastards have had **everything**! _It wasn't you, was it, Jenkins? I tell you, their thieving lives won't be worth living… don't just stand there, man, get the Watch! No, __**I'll**__ go and get the Watch! _And he stomped off again, down the road to the gate, full of affronted purpose.

"Who needs TV?" whispered Fusilier Williams, smiling contentedly.

"Well, we needs civvie clothes." said Powell. "We still got some local money, and we will need more scran soon. We cannot go to the shop in _this,_ they'll be looking out for these uniforms."

So while Powell guarded the weapons cache, Williams, by common consent the betteer sneak-thief of the two, discreetly crawled off to look for unguarded washing lines. Soon he was back with an armful of clothing.

"Shirts and trousers, mun. Some is bound to fit!"

A little later in the morning, Powell, by joint consent the man who could best rough-house it in a fight, went to get a newspaper and some more food. To his mild surprise, the park was filling up more that you might expect for a Sunday. And something he hadn't seen in life, only in cartoons – soap-boxes with makeshift lecterns were springing up, and assorted self-important people were hanging around assessing how the crowd was building up. They looked like the sort of long-lean, slightly eccentric people who were so bursting with something to say, or perhaps lectures to deliver or a point of view to impose, that they were driven to go out and say it in public. A man in a long frock-coat with unkempt hair and wildly staring eyes was refreshing himself from notes. It looked to Powell as if the crowd was gathering here in search of both entertainment, and, in some obscure way, reassurance.

The crowd looked like an audience for The Good Old Days**(1), **he reflected. Only not so impeccably turned out. Not usually an introspective or reflective man, Powell wondered. Had they slipped back a century or so when the bomb blew? Been travelled in time, like in Doctor Who? _And if so, where was the flaming Tardis? _

Powell passed a group of even more deranged-looking individuals clustered round a banner that said A.M.U.F.O.R.A. in big letters. Anoraks had not been a part of normal Edwardian costume**(2) , **but these people seemed to exude the essence of anorak-ness. Snatches of conversation about _But he descriptions suggest Nordics and not Greys _and _When do you think the alien mothership will reveal itself? _Drifted over to him. They completely ignored the heavily-built thuggish looking man in clean but ill-fitting clothes who passed their stall.

Powell noticed, here and there, silent figures in black who were watching the crowd. They had an air of secret policemen about them – coppers never could get the hang of inobtrusively mingling. Powell decided not to give them a chance to look twice at him, but they seemed disinterested.

A ratty little man in a battered brown overcoat was trying to sell things from a tray slung round his neck.

_Getcha alien ray guns here! Fun toys for the kids! Getchor alien dolls! Evil little grey men from space! Dollar each, and that's cutting me own throat! Also sausage-inna-bun!_

Powell grinned. He'd tried the sausage-inna-bun and dubious burgers vendors like that sold from trays outside Stradey and the Arms Park. They tasted like nothing in Wales, but mum, the big match atmosphere made you want one and then to go back for more even knowing the first was a turdburger. Men like this had a sales knack…

"Sir! You look like a man who appreciates the value of a good comestible!"

The ratty little trader had noticed Powell. Who now had to interact with him. Powell sniffed the air. _Ach y fey,_ those smells of frying onions and nameless meats were both nauseating and hunger-inducing. Worst, it was bringing back nostalgic memories of Barry Island, where he'd lost his virginity underneath a fairground ride and celebrated afterwards by buying the girl a dinner, well, a hot-dog, but with everything on, mind, no stinting, from a trader not unlike this… _Dibbler?_

"No thanks, mun." he said, remembering the lecture about native food in foreign postings. You never knew what was in it nor how well it was cooked. The M.O. had been clear that if you got delhi belly from the local scran, it was as good as a self-inflicted, in his opinion.

"You can help, though. We.._I'm_.. just in from Llamedos (he felt proud of himself for remembering the local name for Wales) and there seems to be some sort of big thing on. Festival, is it?"

The trader looked both ways. Then he said, in a low voice

"_Apparently_, we bin invaded by aliens from space overnight. Everyone you ask tells you a different story, apparently there's some fearsome thing at the Lady Sybil Hospital what is made out of needle-sharp teeth and it's got acid for blood, and it eats people and it's on the loose. Laid its egg inside an Igor, according to this orderly I know up the hospital!"

Powell nodded, sagely. He'd seen _**Alien.**_ The video was a great hit at the Shirt Factory.

"And some intrepid ballsy lady who takes no shit from any man is hunting it down, right?" he asked.

"You mean Miss Smith-Rhodes from the Assassins' Guild?" Dibbler inquired. "Nah, she'd try to capture it alive and put it in her Zoo. People'd pay big dollar to see it, too! My betting is they'll put Miss Band on the case."

"Miss Band?" _SHE can't be here too, surely?_

"Miss Alice Band. From the Guild. Now THERE'S a killer if ever you met one! She'll rip its head off and spit stronger acid down the hole, in my opinion."

_Bloody hell. She is here too. _

"Anyway, other people swear the aliens is little grey men what have travelled infinite oceans of space to come here and stick ice-cold metal probes up our bums."

Dibbler looked puzzled for a second.

"Beats me why they should want to do that, although I concede it might be a hit down the Blue Cat Club. Don't ask."

"And other people?"

"Well, the newspapers was full of it this morning. Caused a panic, see. Some people is trying to get OUT of the city and evacuate to somewhere safer, but they're the exciteable ones".

Dibbler snorted, derisively, at the weaknesses of foreigners.

You knows, immigrants. Klatchians, Ephebians, Howondalandians, and so on. And a lot of other people is coming out on the streets to watch and see what happens next. Big crowd here, but they say an even bigger one's out in Sator Square and the Broadways, outside the Patrician's Palace. People are thinking if the aliens are going to materialise their spaceship above the Palace and blast it into oblivion with a superpowered death beam, right, they want to be there and cheer. Especially if His Lordship's inside, though I've never said a word agin Lord Vetinari, ever."

Dibbler lowered his voice again.

"They say three of the Aliens were captured alive, guv. Some sort of futuristic soldiers with weapons that can blast anything into dust. They say the captured aliens are at the Palace now. But what I think is, right, how can futuristic killing machines let themselves be taken alive by _us_? I bet they're reading their demands to Vetinari right now!"

Powell considered this.

"Just in time for the mothership to materialise above the Palace and blast it into dust, then, with their own people inside forcing a surrender."

Something about Powell must have made Dibbler uneasy.

"Is that all, guv? Things to sell…"

"You've been a great help, butty bach. One last thing – is there anywhere open to buy the papers on a Sunday morning?"

"If you don't see a street seller, guv, you can try the Laughing Falafel, Klatchistan Take-Away and All Nite Grocery, just round the corner on the Soake. Out the gate and sharp right, corner of Dimwell!"

"Thanks!"

"Don't mention it… _Sausage inna bun! Alien dolls! Model blaster ray-gun pistols!"_

_

* * *

_

And as news from Ankh-Morpork sank in, panic hit the streets of Quirm and Pseudopolis.

Some people armed themselves for a last stand against the marauding aliens. Many, many, others fled the cities, on foot, in coaches, in wagons, some even streaming towards Ankh-Morpork. Soon they would meet those Ankh-Morporkians who had elected to flee themselves.

Stolid farmer Dan Archer, head of the Guild of Farmers, and his friend Walter Gabriel stood at the roadside watching the throng of refugees pass, and making a mental note to get some of the handier lads together as a local militia to patrol the fields, as those bloody townies were going to start to get hungry soon and we've got a cabbage harvest to defend.

"Big bulbous bodies mounting death-ray gonnes. On top of a fifty-foot tripod. You don't say, me old booty?" Walter repeated, slowly, as a panicked refugee gabbled it out. He pictured it in his head. Something like that iconographer fellow's tripod, with the picture box on top, only scaled up…

He shook his head.

"That sounds a bit top-heavy to me" he said, finally. The moment un starts going up or down a hill, that'un's going to fall over, you mark my words. And how does a tripod _walk_?"

A long-ago memory, Dan and Walter tied together for the village school's three-legged race, unable to coordinate and falling over every third step. Walter shook his head.

As the refugees streamed past, Dan looked Hubwards in the direction of Ankh-Morpork. There was a complete lack of massive explosions and ungovernable fires on the horizon.

Walter just looked downwards.

"Tripods." he repeated. "Only good on the flat. A lot of weight on three pointy legs so 'un sinks into soft ground under its own weight. They'll have to stick to the roads, Dan, me old darling. And I'd like to see how 'un copes with THIS!"

He pointed wordlessly down at the cattle grid under their feet. Dan and Walter grinned at each other and at the foibles of townies.

* * *

Powell came back from his shopping trip carrying the newspapers and provisions designed to keep for a few days. The crowd had thickened and he was hard put to get back to the hide without anyone noticing: but he detoured and mimed the action of taking a covet piss against the back wall, at which point he was accorded the usual dignity of heads turning away, and inquisitive youth having its ear clipped by affronted mothers.

"Cor bloody hellfire!" said Williams, who was scanning the _Ankh-Morpork Octeday Inquirer._ The red-top's headlines and coverage were even more lurid than the Times. From over in the Park, speakers were alternatively demanding something be done about the alien peril, or inviting our brothers and sisters in space to come down and teach us wisdom, to burn away the old ways and usher in a New Age. Ankh-Morpork people, ever in search of new and inventive street theatre, were cheering them on or booing as the fancy took them.

"All this for us" Powell mused, softly. "Makes you feel proud, dun't it, mun?"

"It does. It does. Here! It says that the officer in charge of the aliens is believed to have been taken prisoner and is at the Palace being held incommunicado. During his arrest this dangerous alien is believed to have been responsible for two deaths with his death-dealing ray-gun."

"Nah. Can't be Mr Holtack. Everyone knows he cannot shoot straight. " objected Powell.

"Unless he was aiming for some other two. You never know with him."

"Wonder how he's getting on there? Duw, this Lord Vetinari sounds like a real bastard!"

They settled down to discreetly watch the show, resisting the temptation to smoke cigarettes, as smoke is visible, but sucking boiled sweets to pass the time.

"_And some of these alien space-troopers are still loose in our city!" _A speaker thundered his disgrace.

"Dead right, mun!" said Powell. He grinned, and made himself more comfortable on the stolen blanket. This was turning out to be highly entertaining.

* * *

The three races that made up the Regiment stood at ease, ranged by companies, along three sides of a square. The work-detail of troll soldiers swung a three-ton trilithon atop the two uprights, then fell out to rejoin the Heavy Company.

Dressed in white clerical robes and the traditional bardic cap, Captain the Very Reverend Hugh apOwain tied the golden rope belt firmly about his waist, checked with his eye that the long low altar slab was perfectly aligned between and before the two uprights, and stepped forward to begin Holy Communion. The gold of the ritual sickle gleamed at his waist, opposed by the dull silver of the sacrificial knife.

Sergeant Williams stood with the NCO's and officers of Headquarters Company, wondering if he was going to enjoy this. He was vaguely aware none of the officers had even noticed an extra Sergeant was parading with them: that at least was a blessing, if not unexpected. A thread of his birth-Christianity flapped loose. Could he go to Hell for attending a pagan ritual? _But that's at Home, right. Jesus never said his mission was to anywhere else but Planet Earth. I mean, He never said "when I've wrapped this one up, guys, I'm due on Alpha Centurai next week". And I have every reason to believe I'm on a different planet. Where the rules are different and I'm probably the only Christian. God will understand. I hope. _

He recalled RSM Dickens saying "Things will not be as they seem at first glance. Just watch closely." and decided this was another test. Important not to react, then. Just do as the others do.

Dickens strode forwards, exchanged a nod with the white clad Druid, then stamped to attention.

_REGIMENT! Regiment – SHUN!_

Nine hundred feet stamped to attention, several large heavy troll ones slightly behind the rest.

_Remove – HEADGEAR!_

In the silence, a harp started to play. Its harmonics suggested that while it was a happy harp now, it could explore further down the register and really give your bowels something to worry about. Williams became aware of a procession starting in its way across the square. It was headed by an ornately dressed goat and its handler, a bearded pioneer-sergeant with a shouldered axe. Two other pioneer sergeants made up the escort. Between them… between them walked a girl. Petite and dark-haired, she was practically barefoot, wearing only thin ballerina pumps of some sort, and a long thin white shift. Her hair was garlanded with white flowers and mistletoe. Unusually for soldiers, the fact the dress left little to imagination was not provoking wolf-whistles and happy catcalls. Indeed, there was a palpable aura of reverence on the air..

Williams watched the procession wend its way towards and to one side of the altar. The girl stepped forwards and, without fear or trepidation, laid down on the altar, two of the pioneer sergeants making a play of tying her hands and feet.

_Isn't that Sian Nash, our company clerk? _Williams wondered, recognising a strong likeness. _If it isn't, she's got a body double over here! _

Williams remembered little of the service. The Padre made a sermon about the Four Forces, about charm and persuasion and bloody-mindedness and uncertainty, which between them keep the world spinning.

But what came next…

Wiliams remembered the knife raising in the Druid's hands. The look of almost bored indifference in the girl's eyes, and the moment where she seemed to remember she had to show a little fear.

Then the knife descended. Red spurted everywhere, and her body jerked and convulsed and was still . He fought to keep a straight face. _Ritual sacrifice? _Eight hundred voices roared **"Belenos!" **at the moment of death, which unconcerted Williams. He made up his mind – he'd never been that devout a Christian in the first place – and recollected that the traditional fate for lone Christians trying to oppose paganism was generally the best seat in the house the next time they burnt a Wicker Man.**(3)** Or the _warmest_, at least…

And then the Padre was delivering a blessing, red dripping from his fingers, and the troops were falling out, back to their barracks…

"Bit of an eye-opener, was that?" said Sergeant Owen, sympathetically. "I remember it took me the wrong way too, at first, till I was in on the secret. "

Williams nodded, weakly.

"Let's enlighten our guest, shall we, Sergeant Owen?"

He led the way across the square to the altar.

"A fine sermon, Padre!" he said, conversationally. The Druid grinned through his beard.

"I tell you, Dai, it's a bugger on the white robes. Gives the laundry a hell of a job. But you have to make a spectacle of it."

Williams looked puzzled.

"You will be the new man?" asked the Druid, holding out a hand. "I heard about you people! The trouble you is causing in town!"

"Can I get up now, sir?" a bored and slightly disgruntled voice said from the altar. "This stone is bloody cold, you could think of warming it up first!"

Williams looked down. The sacrifice was very much alive and tapping one of her feet impatiently. But she was still soaked in red… he looked back to where the Druid chaplain was grinning and pushing the retractable blade back into the handle.

"Gets a bit expensive in young women , else." He said. And even in this town you can't exactly put an advert in the post office window, saying Young Female Sacrifices Needed, should not make plans for Monday."

"So you're not asking for virgins any more, Hugh?"

"In this town? So the way we look at it in Reform Druidism, see, we have no objections to a symbolic virgin on the altar. Symbolising young womanhood and the first person of the Moon Goddess in purely mimetic and representative terms. We just makes the sacrifice a purely symbolic and mimetic one as well. The Moon Goddess don't seem to mind, Sian here gets to go out on Saturday nights, everyone's happy**!"(4)**

"Yes, but can I get up now, sir?"

"Oh, right, OK, Sian, jolly good show as always!"

The girl got off the slab and waas given a coat to put over herself. Williams couldn't help himself.

"Sian Nash?" he asked.

"Indeed I am. Sergeant."

"Company clerk, boyo" said Dickens. "We're a forward-looking regiment in many ways, and we have a few ladies on the rolls. Shape up well, too!"

"I know a Sian Nash on my world, too" Williams said. "Like you, she is a company clerk to an Army unit."

"I bet she doesn't get ritually sacrificed three times every Lunar cycle." Said the Discworld Sian.

"Three?"

"One week I gets to rest." she said. "It's unlawful to sacrifice a menstruating woman." She put her coat on and asked if she was dismissed, sir.

Williams reddened slightly.

Then the messenger came for Dickens. He saluted and handed over a written order.

The RSM read the slip of paper, and nodded.

"We is on standby, gentlemen. Civil unrest inside and outside the City. Just in case the Watch cannot cope. Sergeant Williams, you have particular experience in dealing with rioting crowds? I may need that expertise. You came here at the right time, it seems!"

* * *

And outside, the crowds in the streets built up further. The Palace Guards ringed the Patrician's palace with men and a show of force, supplemented by what Watchmen and Dark Clerks were available. The Wizards kept a wary eye on the crowd building in Sator Square. But for every Guard, every Watchman, every Dark Clerk and Wizard, there were ten people in the crowd outside…

* * *

**(1) **A long-running BBC television show, from the period Variety Theatre in Leeds, which every week replicated an Edwardian music hall form the early 1900's with acts to match. Both entertainers – and crucially, the audience – were in period costume to reinforce the illusion of having stepped back to 1905.

**(2)** Apart from Captain Scott's Antarctic expedition, so they had an excuse…

**(3) **And that had been a police sergeant, who had previously renounced the temptation of Britt Ekland in the nude…. Ref. film **The Wicker Man. **

**(4) **The concept of the recyclable virgin was fast catching on in modern reform druidism. The Rev. ap Owain, like many Druid priests, got the kit from Boffo, on Tenth Egg Street:

_Authentic Sacrificial Knife with retractable blade! Reservoir of fake blood in the handle*, up to one pint, flows like real, guaranteed washes out of white robes! For the cynical Druid who knows how hard it is to find a genuine young woman of unblemished character! Approved by 33% of all Moon Goddesses everywhere! _

_* Available separately. _


	27. On Trial

_**Slipping Between Worlds 27 **_

_6,000 words is about top limits for a chapter. This'll have to be split over two. _

_

* * *

_

Vetinari opened proceedings with a minimum of ceremony. Seated in his chair at the foot of the throne-room steps, he repeated that he was here to come to a guided decision about the nature, purpose and ultimate disposition of the three visitors so far captured from those known to have visited from an alternate world. Indicating the rather creaky and desiccated-looking man who had _lawyer_ written all over him, he said that Mr Slant would be at hand to advise on specific points of law and justice, should it be proven in the cause of questioning that any or all of the visitors had broken City law and statute. Witnesses would be called as appropriate, and other members of the Council assembly would be permitted question sessions with the visitors where it was thought their specific expertise would be of value.

"Commander Vimes, please can you ascertain what all that _noise_ is, coming from outside? It does rather appear to be getting louder."

Vimes nodded, and briefly left the room.

Vetinari nodded.

"The first order of business is that our three guests identify themselves to the satisfaction of this assembly." he said. "Gentlemen?"

Holtack and the two private Fusiliers stood, one by one, and identified themselves. This was noted by a clerk-stenographer.

"Fusilier Hughes, please give your own account of how you came to be here." Vetinari invited him. Hughes stood and related his story, of how he had been pursuing the old lady with the shopping trolley and how he and Mr Holtack had been steering it and her back towards the safety cordon around the bomb, and then there had just been an enormous flash of light, no noise, see, just _light. _And Hughes had felt that was bad, see, as if you can_ see _the bomb go off but not_ hear _it, then you are dead. You have just run out of time and luck. And then he'd woken up, in this dark gloomy corridor looking like part of a church or a monastery of some sort, but the corridor was lined with bookshelves. The old lady wasn't there, nor was her trolley, nor Mr Holtack. He'd pulled a book down off the shelf to see it was published on Earth and written in English, but he realised he was in a library from the ticket inside, in a place called Unseen University. So he'd lit up a tab, see, to settle his head as it was really _gonging_, and then this screeching thing, a gorilla perhaps, had come leaping at him spitting feathers. He'd been alarmed and tried to at least frighten it off with a shot from his rifle, but the thing had just got him by the shoulders and banged his head on a shelf. Then he woke up on a bed with all theses men in skirts crowded round looking at him, and one of them was only smoking my bloody tabs, wasn't he, and another was aiming my rifle out the window…

"Oh yes. The _gonne_." said Vetinari. "Please continue."

"And this big Captain persuaded me to give myself up. I wasn't going to take him on in a fight, so I surrendered. Stayed in a cell last night, and here I am now."

The Librarian of Unseen University was called to give evidence, and Holtack noticed the red-haired Boer woman left the ranks of the Assassins to translate for him.

"To prevent eny future misunderstendings, Mister Hughes." she said, in a schoolteacherly way. "The Librarien wishes you to be ebsolutely ewere thet he is en _ape_. No other sort of simian creature resembling a true ape. En _ape_. Nothing else. Nor is he a _gorilla_."

"Ook, ook!"

"He is en _orang-utan. _Thet is, a Great Ape from the jungle islands on the far side of this continent. I do not know how much you might have been taught yet, concerning the geography of our world? I will try to keep it simple. Librerien?"

The Librarian made his statement in a series of "_OOOk!"'s_, some clearly affronted, which were interpreted by Johanna for the court. At one point, twanging with simian indignation, he slowly turned and pointed a long arm and accusing finger straight at Hughes, who blanched slightly. **(1) **In any courtroom, that would have been pure theatre. From a creature with the reach of an orang-utan, it was unforgettable.

"Look, I'm sorry I shot at you…" Hughes began. Johanna smiled, serenely.

"Oh, he forgives you for _thet,_ Mister Hughes. No harm done. No, it is the fect you were smoking in his Library thet offends him still."

There was a loud _harrumph_ from across the hall. Heads turned to watch.

"Now look here!"

It was the cavalryman with the ice-blue eyes. Vetinari sighed.

"Your objection, Lord Rust?"

"How do we know the dratted creature is saying what the gel _claims_ it's sayin'? What's her authority? All I can hear is OOK!"

"Miss Smith-Rhodes?" Vetinari invited her. "It is, just about, a legitimate point of order."

Johanna glared coldly at Rust. Holtack, caught between the two stares, fought a desire to duck for cover. _If any lethal death rays are being fired in here_, he thought_, there's a matched pair of cold green ones over there taking on two blue ones._

"One, my Lord, the Librerian is a "he" and not an "it". Secondly, ell the Great Apes hev their own lenguage. Et home, I learnt to understand the language of gorillas end chimpanzees. I essure you, they ell understand ours! When I errived in this city, epplying my knowledge to the lenguage of orang-utans wes _not_ difficult."

"Oook!" the Librarian said, with feeling. Johanna looked at Rust and giggled, but did not translate. Vetinari smiled faintly, and did not press her.

"Are you enswered, my Lord? Good. Then I shell continue!"

Johanna continued to relate the Librarian's story. Then both were dismissed, and Ridcully and Ponder Stibbons confirmed later events in the University infirmary.

"And where is the gonne now?" Vetinari inquired.

"Under very close guard from selected Watch officers, sir." said Captain Carrot.

"Dwarfs, I hope?"

"I made sure of that, sir" Carrot confirmed.

"Capital. I believe this is all Fusilier Hughes can at the moment usefully relate to us, unless anyone from the floor can express a case for questioning him further? No? Please be suited, Mr Hughes."

The noise outside was getting, if anything, louder. Vimes returned.

"There's a bloody big gathering in the street, sir." He reported. "All the way around both Broadways, backs up as far as the Cham and Sator Square, and starting to spread down Filigree Street. All incoming traffic from the Hubwards Gate is gridlocked, and Traffic are out at the gate diverting it round to Nameless and Short, and even round to Limping Gate and Kicklebury."

"Are we shut in here, Commander?"

"For the moment, sir, yes. I've got Watchmen on the palace gates, and if I can confer with Colonel Wrangle about deploying the Palace Foot Guards to make sure nobody gets in here?"

"By all means, Commander. What has provoked this street presence on the part of our notoriously stolid and reliably unimaginative citizens?"

Vimes grimaced.

"Those bloody newspapers, sir. The stuff they were printing this morning. Half the population is trying to evacuate the city because it thinks we're being invaded from space by ruthlessly murderous aliens with death-dealing ray guns."

He glared at Holtack, who tried to look carefully neutral.

"And let me guess, Commander." Vetinari said, with a hint of patient weariness. "The other half of the population, currently standing, I believe, at one million two hundred thousand, is out in the street because it wants to watch the fun, perhaps that of seeing our new rulers vaporise this palace from some unimaginably lethal weapon mounted in their mother craft."

"Oh, I can imagine that for you, sir" a diffident voice said from the hall. "Of late I have been giving speculative thought to the refractive powers of sunlight channelled through very carefully faceted and arranged gemstones, using rubies, for preference…the effects, on paper at least, are quite astonishing!"

"I'm sure you can, Leonard." Vetinari said, in a low voice.

"It is early days as yet, my Lord, but I call it Light Arrayed through Sapphires, Emeralds or Rubies." Leonard of Quirm went on, cheerfully. "It might be used, perhaps, for humanitarian reasons, let us say a rescue situation involving cutting through very thick steel, perhaps if another situation were to arise at the Royal Bank where somebody is locked in an airtight vault and the Chairman has lost the keys. Or perhaps for shaping metal plate for creating one of the proposed new ironclad ships, which I am told will revolutionise sailing times and thus enhance peace and goodwill between nations..."

"Thank you, Leonard." Vetinari said, briskly.

Vimes, meanwhile, was talking to one of the two capable-looking senior soldiers in the room. Colonel Wrangle, Holtack guessed, who had beckoned over two or three of his younger officers and a very obvious senior sergeant to an informal O-Group. The genial but efficient looking Watch Captain and the good-looking blonde sergeant joined them. The Guards Sergeant saluted, dismissed himself, and went off to issue orders. Colonel Wrangle turned to Vetinari.

"By your leave, sir?"

"Granted. Assure yourselves, and in good time the rest of us, that this building is completely secure, and we will continue the investigation. In the meantime I will have Palace staff distribute light refreshment."

Holtack noticed the number of armed guards in the gallery had dropped by half, as a Sergeant went on the round detailing off every second man. He wondered what was going on outside: had they really precipitated a national panic?

This stirred a memory. _1938. New Jersey. Halowe'een eve. Orson Welles wanted to do a different sort of scary radio play, didn't he. He thought vampires and things were all used up as a source of scariness. So instead he adapted HG Wells' "War of the Worlds" for radio and did it as if it were a live-action news report, as if the invasion from space was happening. And he did it so well people who tuned in late and didn't hear the disclaimer genuinely believed America was under attack. Mass panic. Most people ran for it, but in America a lot of people believe in free gun ownership to defend themselves in times like this… the old boy who took his shotgun and defended his farmstead against attacking aliens, for instance. Who turned out to be a National Guard patrol checking out the rumours. Who fired back at the "aliens". And other people heard the gunshots and their imagination did the rest._

He wondered if he should mention this. But he thought it might be presumptuous, for one thing. And it might even turn out to be priceless knowledge, if things got worse and he handled it in the right way…

A cheerful middle-aged maid came into view pushing a tea-trolley. He was impressed by the speed with which Hughes and Ruijterman got there first. And also by Ruijterman insisting Holtack got a brew first.

"Well, sir, the way I see it, is you'll inevitably be doing most of the talking for us." Holtack was reminded that this man had once been a sergeant. _And probably will be again. _

"Trying to get us home again, and that!" added Hughes.

"Yes". murmured Holtack. He felt worried and burdened by their expectations and the trust they were putting in him.

"Just remember. You're free to answer anything they ask you, honestly and fully. In fact, I'd prefer it if you held nothing back. We're completely dependent on these people to get us home again. As far as I'm concerned, normal rules don't apply here and the Official Secrets Act is so much scrap paper. I think we can all safely agree we're not even on Earth!"

Hughes ironically hummed five musical notes. Heads turned to follow the tune.

"Hello." said Jocasta Wiggs, nervously. She distractedly flicked a lock of hair out of her face. Hughes and Ruijterman went diplomatically poker-faced.

"I just thought.. you know,… I'd say "hello", and all that". she said, uncertainly. "In case you thought I'd forgotten."

Holtack grinned. The three soldiers were in their own private space, being covertly or openly watched by all, but with nobody caring to breach the few yards of _cordon sanitaire_ that separated them from the native Ankh-Morporkians. Until now. He felt oddly bucked up again.

"I apologise." Holtack said. "I should have come over to say hello to _you_. Your Miss Band still intrigues me."

"It surprised all of us, to be honest." Jocasta said. "So she really also exists on your world too?"

"Seemingly so, but don't ask me how!" Holtack said. "Perhaps there's some sort of primal universal force, like gravity or whatever, that generates an Alice Band everywhere there's intelligent life."

Jocasta giggled. "Professor Stibbons from the University knows something." she said. "His Lordship wants him to speak about it later, anyway. Mi… _Johanna_ – thinks it's to do with people on the Disc having body doubles on your world. The two planets are somehow linked in a lot of ways, and Ponder and his people are only just scratching the surface."

Hughes hummed the five notes again. He and Rjuiterman shared the broadest grin consistent with not being insubordinate.

Jocasta looked questioningly at him.

"It's a soldier's joke in bad taste." Holtack explained. "There was a film…" Jocasta looked blank; Holtack realised this world probably hadn't evolved movies. "Well, a theatrical entertainment. About meeting creatures from outer space for the first time. Called _Close Encounters of the Third Kind."_

"Ah. We've got people like that on this world." Jocasta said. "The First Kind is where you only see their spacecraft."

The second kind is where you see the alien…" Holtack explained.

"And the Third Kind is where you physically interact with the alien… oh, I _see_. Soldiers' humour!"

Jocasta had reddened slightly, but she still made a point of taking his hand and looking him in the eye.

"Good luck, Philip" she said. "If you make it, I'm still committed to showing you the Guild, remember!"

"Jocasta, I'm looking forward to it!" Holtack assured her. In the background, somebody was calling for order as proceedings were about to resume. She smiled, and went to rejoin the other Assassins.

Holtack heard a very-finely judged voice behind him murmur

"Philip, is it now?", pitched _just_ on the safe edge of insubordinate, and he grinned. All Hughes had attracted had been an enraged orang-utan, but seemingly one imbued with human intelligence and intellect. _Try not to mention __**Every Which Way But Loose. **__Nor even to __**think**__ about it. This is not that sort of orang-utan. _"Right turn, Clyde!" _is no help here…_

Vimes and Colonel Wrangle reported quickly and discreetly to Vetinari, who nodded satisfaction. They resumed their seats.

Vetinari unhurriedly consulted a few notes, then looked up.

"Fusilier Ruijterman, please." he requested.

Ruijterman stood, crashed to attention, and saluted.

"Please relate to this assembly how you arrived in our city last night, and events immediately afterwards."

Ruijterman obliged.

"One second, sir, I am exchanging shots with a hidden sniper. He has the advantage over me in that he is partially concealed inside an upper house window and has the protection of a brick wall. All I could do was to keep moving, stop every so often and snep off a shot to make the fellow keep his head down. This brought me nearer and nearer to where Hughes, here, and Mr Holtack, were seeking to persuade the old lady to stop struggling and come to a place of safety. I could see that Hughes had her half-lifted and precticelly tucked underneath his arm. Mr Holtack was using that _verdamte _trolley of hers, with the beg-lady begs inside it, to provide minimal cover, perheps in the hope the metal might deflect a bullet. As it wes, a shot wes fired thet pessed very close to his head. I elso recell thet Sergeant Williems hed essembled a snetch-squad to rush the house where the sniper wes, to kick in the door end seek to cut off his route of retreat. They were running for the house end the Sergeant was shouting for me to follow.

"I cannot swear to it, but I believe the sniper hed identified Mr Holtack as an officer end was efter his scalp. I am sure a lest round wes fired that hit or clipped off the old lady-'s wheeled trolley. It mey hev hit one of the begs she cerried in it. I was raising my rifle to fire again when there wes a blinding white flesh, like the brightest possible cemera flesh. End then I wes alone in a high place, slithering down the metal of a dome. End you people should do something ebout your pigeons, by the way."

This aroused a laugh. Ruijterman then briefly described his arrival at the dome of Small Gods and his subsequent meeting with Johanna Smith-Rhodes and her squad of Assassins.

"What can I say, sir? By coincidence, the woman tesked with my surrender spoke my native language end comes from a country which at first I thought was mine. Thet there should be a place on this world called Rhodesia is incredible enough. But thet there is elso a Sed-Efrikka is unbeleiveable!"

Vetinari nodded.

"I will shortly call Miss Smith-Rhodes to give her account of your meeting" he said. "_Mijnheer_ Ruijterman, would it interest you to know that your rescuer of last night, Miss Smith-Rhodes, is the great-grand-daughter of the man who founded the state of Rhodesia?"

Ruijterman looked across at Johanna with a growing respect.

"The great Sir Cecil was your great-grandfather?" he said. "I only know him from pictures in old books end from his stetue in the centre of Salisbury." Then his face fell into a frown. "I believe the stetue still stends there now. Et least for the moment.". he added, turning Johanna's proud smile into a perplexed frown.

_Why on Disc should anyone want to pull down the statue of Cecil Rhodes? The only set of circumstances I can think of where that would even become remotely likely… great Io, surely not? No! _

Johanna felt a cold surge of horror as the train of thought pulled into its terminus.

"Miss Smith-Rhodes, could we prevail upon you for your testimony, please?" Vetinari said, smoothly. He was watching her with what might have been a look of veiled concern in his eyes.

She shook the terrible thought out of her head, and stepped to the witness stand.

"It is as he says, sir….."

"And you shared a bar of chocolate?" Vetinari asked, amused.

"Better thet then en exchange of fire, sir. Elthough I had surprise on my side, end a loaded crossbow thet never left my shooting hend." Johanna assured him.

"I do not doubt it. My rifle was propped up on the dome and I could not hev reached it in time!" Ruijterman agreed. Holtack noted that he was getting more _Sed-effrikkan_ in the presence of an almost-compatriot. "Besides, the young lady is an Afrikaaner, like me. I would have found it _herd_ to shoot her!"

"No doubt." Vetinari agreed. "No doubt. But complete your testimony, if you please?"

Johanna finished relating her story at the point where she had passed Ruijterman to the Watch for interrogation. It was agreed that Vimes and the Watch had treated their first two guests fairly, properly and correctly - both Ruijterman and Hughes said they had no complaints about their treatment while in detention, and both praised Sergeant Colon for sending out for a decent curry.

"We can return to the details of your Watch interrogations later." Vetinari said. "But now we have the first of an odd series of coincidences to discuss. Professor Stibbons is sure, to the point of certainty, that he can pinpoint which planet you are from. The University, for quite some time, has had a long-term research project where we have been observing a parallel world, very much like our Discworld in many vital respects, which has provided a most gratifying means of absorbing the energies of our leading, ah, _natural philosophers_, and keeping them out of trouble elsewhere. Miss Smith-Rhodes is aware of this, as she has spent time there observing and writing on its natural history and wildlife. She has become, in fact, our acknowledged expert on the fauna of the continent of _Africa, _which she has noted closely parallels that of her own Rimwards Howondaland."

Vetinari paused and intently studied several faces in turn, including Johanna's.

"There are other parallels between Africa and Howondaland. But an executive-level decision was made not to involve Miss Smith-Rhodes in the study of the human and political history of South Africa. That is being handled by other people."

Vetinari nodded towards Professor van der Post of Unseen University.

She knows only that two countries, Rhodesia and the Republic of South Africa, survived the collapse of the European colonial empires in Africa. I believe she has inferred a little more from your statements in this court. Perhaps the time is right for her to hear about the fate of Rhodesia on the Roundworld."

Ponder Stibbons stood up.

"Sir, I believe this is permissible up to a point. But please may I remind the Council that one of the protocols, if ever a person were to cross from Roundworld to here, is that we do not tell them anything which is in their personal future, so as not to set up a temporal paradox when they return to their own place and time?"

Vetinari nodded.

"That is fair and prudent. I understand the cut-off point is the early summer of 1985, according to the calendar most often used on Roundworld? Very well, then. Mr Ruijterman, I understand this may be distasteful to you, but please can you tell the Council about the recent history of your native country, as you know it?"

Ruijterman's face suddenly set and he assumed a thousand-yard stare, the sign of the veteran soldier who is fighting a losing war.

"I truly hev no wish to cause you distress, jongfrau." he said. "But the truth is, in God's year of 1985, my Rhodesia is no more. It is gone. For a long time we were fighting a war against armed bleck insurgents supported by the new bleck Efrican states thet were growing on our borders. So thet we were not fighting on a second front inside our borders, we instituted _apartheid_ to hold down the blecks within our nation. It wes necessary. It wes unjust to the blecks, any fool could see thet, but it kept them docile and unarmed. We fought to the limits of our strength end our endurance, but for every white man, there were fifty blecks. When _we_ lost a man dead, it was an irreplaceable tragedy. _They_ did not mind losing entire regiments.

"We were never defeated. We were worn down by weight of numbers and lack of allies. In the end, Prime Minister Smith hed to make such accommodation as he could with the blecks, end negotiate for the best possible deal for white people in a bleck country. The old colonial motherland, Great Britain, helped broker a peace treaty."

Ruijterman sighed.

"The bleck political leader who seized power, Mister Mugabe, appears to be keeping to those promises so far and those whites who hev stayed hev not been harmed. Thet is promising. But Mugabe hes made promise to his supporters ebout seizing end redistributing white-owned lend . He hes not done so yet. But he hes never renounced such promises. Perheps White Rhodesia, such as remains, is still waiting for the other shoe to drop. But this new _Zimbabwe _is not a country I could live in. Not a state where the blecks rename Salisbury as Harare and taunt us that the bronze in the Rhodes statue might one day be put to better use.

"Like many other white Rhodesians, I crossed the border to take asylum in Sed-Efrikka end I joined its army for three years. In 1985, _jungfrau_, at least I cen comfort you with the news that Sed Efrikka remains white end Afrikaaners still rule the _Staadt. _Whet heppens to God's beloved country in the future is in the hends of God."

Johanna nodded. It was a lot to take in.

"So is it true to say you are now stateless, mr Ruijterman, and a mercenary, a soldier of fortune?" Vetinari asked. " I see you are now serving a third country which according to my limited understanding of these things is neither Rhodesia nor… _Sed-Efrikka._" The old soldier shook his head and smiled.

"No, sir." Ruijterman said, firmly. "Although I understend why you should think this is the case. I em a South African citizen and may return there any time I choose, elthough the Bureau of State Security did have occasion to edvise me that my ettitude towards espects of the apartheid laws was dangerously liberal. I thenked them for their friendly concern end took a plane to Great Britain. Where, because my grand-ouma came from South Wales, I was able to claim citizenship and prove my loyalty to my new country by enlisting in its Ermy. Es I em a quarter Welsh – Llamedosian to you? - I wes directed to my current Regiment. Elthough it may hev been the British Ermy's idea of a joke, perhaps."

"You say the South African authorities thought you were a dangerous liberal?" Vetinari probed. "Please explain"

"Sir, I rose to the renk of sergeant in the Sed-Efrrikan Army. I commended bleck soldiers. I hev no animosity to the blecks, except when their politicians seek revenge for years of white oppression, or when their armed soldiers are bleddy well trying to kill me. I soon learned that blecks are not inferior, or stupid, or cow-like. Given opportunity, they fight es herd end es well as white men, end those who fought alongside us were ebsolutely loyal. God knows _why,_ we gave them nothing to be loyal to. But they were good soldiers and we loved them dearly. I found it shaming that they shared our risks, shared our war, and yet only earned a third of the pay end were subject to apartheid law when not in the front lines. If ever men deserved a little more human consideration, it was them.

"End yet on home leaves, or a forty-eight in Jo'burg, we who had fought together could not drink together! They could not come into white bars to drink with us. So one night, a group of we white soldiers broke the law and went into Soweto, the bleck township, to drink with our friends and comrades in _their_ world. End we were treated as honoured guests! Then as the party got louder, a lorry-load of konstabels from the police force came to break it up and make arrests. Fat, useless, white policemen who are good at beating up un-armed blecks or raping their women in police cells, but who would kack their creased khaki shorts if ever confronted with a bleck who shot beck at them."

Johanna was finding it difficult to suppress laughter. What the visitor was describing could so easily have happened back Home…

Ruijterman was absolutely deadpan as he said

"We fought them, of course. We'd just come from a real shooting war in Angola, so we were not likely to tamely surrender to some fat copper telling us we were an unlawful assembly under the racial separation laws! We kicked a few of the haughty konstabels right up their fat guavas, then showed the blecks how to build a barricade that stayed put, end was difficult to take down again. We built a few little tricks into it. Then our friends helped us to get beck into a white part of the city again, without detection.

"Efter thet, BOSS took an interest. My commanding officer suggested I took a long leave out of the country to think things over, perheps sign on in the British or the Dutch Army for a few years. End no, I wes not exiled, but sometimes a man needs to take himself out of trouble's way for a while end return when things have died down, a few years later. I came to Europe. The Dutch were…."

Ruijterman made a face.

"…how the Hell the Dutch menaged to conquer South Africa is beyond me. Perheps the best of them emigrated end became Afrikaaners. Et least the British still hev a fighting tradition and fire in their spirits. End by long roads end short, I arrived here, in your fine city."

"Thank you, mr Ruiujterman. Most enlightening!" said Vetinari.

"And so we arrive at the officer. Lieutenant Holtack, please take the stand?"

Holtack stood up.

"You are Philip James Owen Holtack, twenty-four years old, of the town of…" Vetinari barely hesitated. "…Rhosllanyrchrugog, in Denbighshire, Wales."

Holtack actually came from the village of Trefor, near Llangollen. The previous night some inner demon had prompted him to give Vimes the slightly more difficult to pronounce name of a town further up the road, just to watch him and the other coppers stumble over the unfamiliar syllables. It had either been Rhos – not even the locals used the full name in most circumstances – or Pontcysyllte (which not even Holtack was sure he was ever pronouncing properly.)

Damn the man, Vetinari had barely hesitated and then pronounced it as if Welsh – _Llamedosian_ – was his first language.

"I am, sir."

"Capital. And you are the senior officer present from a group of soldiers of the Royal Welch, some of whom are still at large in this city, although efforts are being redoubled to detain them."

"I am, sir…"

There was a commotion at the door. Heads turned to look.

"Oh, kindly put that _down_, you silly man!"

The voice was female, and carried harmonics of obedience. Its owner pushed her way through two crossbow-armed Palace Guards, both of whom were looking helplessly for an officer and further guidance.

The woman was a well-padded middle forties, with piled auburn red hair, in plain but expensive looking clothing. Something about her made Holtack think of the sort of upper-class woman, a daughter of minor nobility, perhaps, who casts herself body and soul into running the Pony Club, or breeding pedigree horses, or perhaps a species of gun-dog. The second-in-command was married to a woman like that, who did her informal welfare and committee duties faithfully around the regimental family, but always gave the impression of itching to be back in her kennels with the red setters she bred and loved. The daughters among the regiment's barracks-rats ached to be invited to act as her kennel-maids, and Holtack had noted she acted with absolute democracy: it didn't matter if you were a lowly Fusilier's daughter who went to the local comp, or Cecelia Otway-Williams, the colonel's daughter just back from boarding school for the hols. If you loved dogs and could use a spade without flinching, you were in. Colonel Otway-Williams had described the informal kennel-maids as "the Tanyas and tanners", explaining to his daughter's disgust that in the old days, dogshit had been prized as a means of making leather especially lustrous and supple. "And tell me when you propose to tidy your personal bed-space, young lady. If a Fusilier lived in that sort of squalor, his feet would not touch! If you can make time for this and you have a strong enough gut to shovel a few tons of accumulated dogshit, you are _perfectly_ capable of tidying your own room!"

Holtack had made a friend of her in his first few months with the Regiment. He had begun to notice all the informal scams and horse-trading that went on in all corners of the battalion, a continual bartering of goods and services that somehow stopped one step short of being illegal, constituting a black market, or of improper use of Army stores and supplies. He had divined that his role in the scheme of things was to be aware it went on, without feeling an overwhelming need to do anything _official _about it. As George McDonald Fraser had said, it was amazing how much of a young officer's duties consisted of discreetly looking the other way, or letting your sergeant deal with any really egregious or possible dangerous activity that went on.

The Welch, by some amazing computation made by a military accountant or civil servant, had been deemed worthy of having one-quarter of an Army veterinary surgeon on the Officers' Mess rolls. This was because of the prestige and power conferred by the Regimental Goat, the unit's _strictly-not-a-mascot-,he-yis-a-member-of-the-Regiment-just-like-you-with-his –own-pay-book, _who, adorned in finery, led the Regiment on parade. It was therefore vitally necessary that he got the best medical attention the British Army could offer, and this was normally administered by a fat jolly major of the Royal Army Veterinarian Corps, whose practice area also covered a horse-breeding stud owned by the Life Guards and several static bases – including, by arrangement, an RAF airbase - which each had their own kennels of guard dogs. He messed with the Welch for part of the week, with the Life Guards for the other, and generally lived a happy life in which he had indicated his willingness to take on informal and officially barred private practice. He was also vet to the Major's wife's dog-kennel, which he practiced alongside his duty to The Goat.

One evening where Holtack had been Officer of the Watch (the duty officer tasked with ensuring the premises do not flood or burn down, nobody steals an APC for a joyride, no major fights nor mutinies happen, and the Regimental Goat is fit and well) the Major's annual leave had coincided with problems at the kennels. The second-in-command's wife had been offended and distraught by the replacement Captain's refusal to tend to her dogs, the new vet, painfully new to the Army, flatly refusing to use Army resources on tending somebody's private pets. Sensing the new vet wanted to play it strictly by the book, Holtack had obliged him by marching him to the Goat's pen.

"I really wouldn't go in there on your own." Holtack had advised him. He had spent a little time getting acquainted with rumour and known fact about The Goat. As Officer of the Watch, it was expected of him to know these things.

"Oh, really, Lieutenant?" _Who is the qualified vet around here, and who incidentally is a Captain who out-ranks you?_

"Major Jeffries only goes in with assistance. Sir." Holtack had persisted.

"I'm not Major Jeffries, am I? I will go in, perform a routine examination, administer a routine injection, and come out again."

"As you wish, sir." Holtack had said, realising he had no need to call out the guard as most of them were here, sensing entertainment was about to happen.

_James Herriot had the sense to listen to warnings about ornery animals, _Holtack thought. _And the brains to get a few big farmhands to restrain them if they showed fight. Ah well, he'll learn. _

There was an anonymous low bleating roar from inside the goat-pen. The vet paused for a second, opened the gate, and went in. There was an ominous silence. Fusilier "Head-butt" Powell sniggered.

Then there was screaming commotion and a frightened yell of "JESUS CHRIST! "

A surgical syringe flew out of the pen and bounced on the tarmac, spraying its contents in all directions. Then the vet, his trousers torn, covered in what he hoped was only mud, came flying out of the goat-shed. Affronted bleating of the _And there's more where that came from, boyo!_ Variety followed him.

"Need a hand, sir?" Holtack politely asked. Assisting the shaking vet to stand, he whispered "Here's the deal. We help you with the goat. Then _you_ go and apologise to Mrs Wynne Parry-Jones for the mix-up, and then you look after her dogs. Are we agreed, sir? Good. I'll stand you a drink afterwards."

Holtack then deferred to Fusilier Evans, a farm-boy from Angelsey who knew something about goats and how to handle them.

"Form a snatch-squad, Evans. As far as I'm concerned, you're the experienced man and you're in charge here."

Evans supervised what was standard operating procedure to Major Jeffries, RAVC: two large Fusiliers ran at the goat with a large wooden board to herd it into a corner. Then at least four grabbed a leg each, immobilising the creature so that the vet could examine it and perform any minor surgeries or injections necessary. Then it was released and everyone scrambled out.

"That's how it's always done, sir. Didn't the Major tell you?"

The vet sighed. Then he extended a hand.

"Forget the "sir" bit. I'm Derek".

"Phil. Now let's find you a place to clean up and I'll go and find Mrs Wynne Parry-Jones."

She had been a friend ever since.

And now Holtack was looking at her spiritual sister, who walked commandingly into the throneroom with a parcel under her arm.

"How did you get in here. Sybil?" Vimes demanded. "The streets outside are clogged with people and the Palace is on lockdown!"

"Well, nobody told _me_, Sam. I just drove here. Willikins escorted me through the crowd, at least part of the way, and then your Constable Dorfl realised who I was and cleared a path for me. And that rather dashing young Lieutenant Langdon of the Guards let me in to find you. Here's your lunch, by the way."

She handed the parcel over. Vimes, embarrassed, took it.

"I'm glad you could join us, Lady Sybil. Please take a seat and add your weight to our deliberations."

He paused.

"The weight of your opinions and conclusions, I mean."

* * *

**(1) **Not strictly relevant, I know, but as I type, the radio is playing the Carpenters "_Calling occupants of interplanetary craft_". How's that for synchronicity…


	28. Kafka in the castle

_**Slipping Between Worlds 28**_

The crowd in the Broadways was getting thicker and denser. This was not entirely attributable to the trolls who were turning up, largely out of curiosity and to see what was going in. Most of the nationalities and species who made up Ankh-Morpork were there, many in national groups waving flags and cheering. Some of the more carnival-minded nations, like the Toledans and the Paraquatians, were in fact making a fiesta of the day, singing songs punctuated by heel-stamping and many _"¡Olé!"_'s and supported by a mariachi band.

This competed with the more dour opinion taken by the more, er, _apocalyptic_ religions – the Temple of Om had turned out for the day, the grey-clad Omnians delivering street sermons on the immediate End of the world, with a grinning Pastor on a makeshift podium trying hard not to repeat "We told you so!" at longer than thirty-second intervals. The brass bands of the Omnian Divine Legion of Salvation**(1)** were playing the old tub-thumping hymns, as led by a shrewd Director of Music who knew his audience. Mean while, foot soldiers of the Salvation Legion were handing out pamphlets and shaking collection tins – "you know it could be no use tomorrow. We will collect your money which may shortly become useless, and let Om decide!"

(Regular relays of Troll-guarded Salvation Legion members were running the full collecting tins round to the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork for emptying into the Church account, whilst the savvy Chairman of the Bank and Post-Master General, who had decided to open the bank on Octeday, was forestalling a run on the bank by offering unprecedentedly high interest levels to those who left their money in their accounts).

"I grant you it could all become just so much useless paper and scrap metal tomorrow." Moist said to the more intelligent representatives of the crowd. "But just in case it doesn't, wouldn't you like it to earn that little bit more for the duration of the emergency? One way you lose it, one way you gain. Your choice!"

And to the _really_ intelligent members of the crowd who approached him at the Bank doors, Moist von Lipwig would put a "let me be your friend" arm around the shoulders of the person he was talking to, and tell them

"Look, let's be intelligent here. If these people have crossed time and space to take us over, they'll want a functioning economy, right? Blasting it to pieces is the _worst _thing they could do. Invading another world – well, what' it costing them? Building an army, developing expensive weapons, whatever they use to propel the space craft can't come cheap…"

"Wear and tear on space-ships…" mused Moist's interogee, eager to make a contribution.

"Absolutely correct, wear and tear on spaceships. It's taking them twenty or thirty years to get it all here, so that's thirty years of accumulated back pay for the Army and space-crews… you see what I'm saying, don't you? They'll want a functioning planet, they won't want to knock it about too much, so as to get a return on their investment as quickly as possible, maybe even turn a profit."

"You've got to turn a profit . Invading another planet is a big investment." said the other man, doubt ebbing away.

"So that's why they need a well-ordered Bank and Mint, do you see what I'm saying?" Moist added, pressing his point. "People to work with them who know what the economy's worth."

Moist slapped his interogee on the shoulder.

"That's why I'm advising you not to withdraw all your money, Mr Beddows. Shares in the Bank can only go up and that's good for everyone".

"Thank you very much, Mr von Lipwig. I'd never have thought along those lines myself!"

And Beddows, like several other big investors, went away empty-handed but reassured.

Moist grinned. This was almost as good as being illegal. And it was preventing a financial crisis. He was pleased he'd spotted the risk himself, albeit only a minute or two before receiving a note from Vetinari, and opened the bank to present as honest and open a response as he could. The net result was that people were still depositing, far more than was being withdrawn – and the Salvation Army had been a gift to him. He'd gone so far as to offer a preferential interest rate to organised religion, in fact, for the duration of the crisis. Word was getting around…

Moist turned.

"Ah, Chief Priest Ridcully!" he said, in welcome.

"My word, when people turn to the Church in time of crisis, they don't half fill the offertory boxes, don't they?"

"What's this about you offering the bloody Omnians three percent above base rate?" grumbled the Chief Priest of Blind Io.

"I do not discriminate between religions!" Moist said, smoothly.

"Save perhaps in the matter of Anoia, my personal patron… but the same offer applies to Ionianism. My Lord. _And_ to the Temple of Offler, whose representatives I see, even now, beating a way through the crowd…"

Ridcully nodded to the four burly broken-nosed and blue-chinned deacons bearing the money-chests. They were escorted by some very large trolls.

"Get it inside, men, and then get the empties straight back to the Temple for Matins!" Ridcully directed. "We're cleanin' up, here!"

_¡Cuidado, cuidado, cuidado, cuidado…. De los alienos! _**(2)**

There was a sudden attack of mariachi trumpet and clicking flamenco heel.

This fought with

"_He is trampling the ungodly with His hooves of flaming fire!"_

In the background, an arch voice murmured

"Do you think those are _iron_ hooves of flaming fire, cherub?"**(3)**

"Not in the Omnian church, lovey. Vestments are too drab and frumpy! You need Temple of Offler, have you seen the Octeday schmatter the _omipalones_ wear? Simply gorgeous…"

"Me, I'm still waiting for one of those anal probes. You'd think these aliens would pick people who might be more _appreciative,_ wouldn't you?"

"Mmmm, but give me a long tall good-looking Nordic any abduction of the week."

Meanwhile, Mrs Nora Tachyon was watching the fun, unheeded on the fringe of a group of dark-clad dwarfs, some of whom had been pushing hand-carts and wagons full of tools and equipment. Not too far away, a small knot of street-gnolls waited, also with carts of varying degrees of roadworthiness, to start what from their point of view would be a lucrative clean-up after the crowds eventually dispersed. Mrs Tachyon was effectively invisible, or at least disregarded. Especially in terms of the small company that shambled up, and greeted a friend, or at least an occasional associate.

_Millenium, hand and shrimp!_

_Koff-koff!_

_I tole'em.._

_Sorry, what duck? _

_Oh shit, it's that crazy woman with the cat…..._

"Hello, Ron!" Mrs Tachyon said, affectionately. "And Mr Henry. And are you keeping well, Mr Man without the Duck?"

Gaspode slunk back, complaining, as Guilty raised his head over the side of the trolley and smiled a cat-smile at the dog.

But now Mrs Tachyon had fallen among friends, she was completely protected by a cloak of invisibility. For who really looks at a beggar? Who ever _looks_ at a street beggar?

And the drama, largely good-humoured where it wasn't philosophically resigned, went on in the streets of the City. Small groups of Watchmen supplemented the Foot Guards in defending all approaches to the Palace. For now, the crowd did not seem interested in testing them. Perhaps the discreet but not concealed presence of Dark Clerks in the background was acting as more of a deterrent.

Lower down Filigree Street, the gates of the Assassins' Guild remained open, as was the custom. But the premises were being guarded at all levels by well-armed black-clad Assassins who were making their presence, silent and watching, very clear indeed. All local leave had been denied to School students, despite Octeday being a free day, and they were all confined to School: as many of the teaching staff as could be gathered together had been called in to provide cover and offer activities or impromptu extra classes.

Other Guilds also had their enforcers and internal police out, very visibly on duty. Around the corner on God Street, the Jolly Good Pals, the Fools' Guild's feared internal enforcers, were out in some numbers at the Guild's gate, scowling a warning at the passing crowd.

The Detention Supervisors and the PE Masters, the Guild of Teachers' internal police, waited in the doorway of that guild for a demonstrator to step out of line, so he could be rewarded either with mordant sarcasm (from the Detention Supervisors) or a blow of the whistle and a kick in the pants from one of the PE Teachers. The Detention Supervisors, in formal black gowns and steel-reinforced mortar-board caps (both to protect the head from missiles and offer a handy weapon if skimmed with some force at an assailant's neck) thwacked the evil looking tawses **(4) **meaningfully against their free palms and looked out, thoughtfully, at a rowdy assortment of people who surely at some point had all been unruly pupils. A crate of ready-use blackboard dusters was to hand, offering them an artillery alternative prior to any hand-to-hand fighting that might break out.

They were being offered a _very_ wide berth by the people in the street, some of whom were discreetly checking the grammar and spelling of their placards for errors.

And everywhere, the _**Times**_ and the _**Inquirer**_ were being intently read, passed from hand-to-hand, and discussed earnestly.

* * *

Meanwhile in the Palace, Philip Holtack had given his evidence, described his own transition to the Discworld, and had reached the point where he had elected to surrender himself to the Watch.

"Miss Wiggs gave me enough information to make an informed decision, sir. I concluded there was no need, and it would be potentially very dangerous, for me to try to continue surviving on the streets of a city where I didn't know a thing. The longer I evaded detention, the more thirsty, hungry, and tired I'd get and sooner or later I'd put a foot wrong. After all, sir, the whole point of evading capture is that a safe place exists for you to evade _to._ I'd been very lucky so far, but given the alternatives, I decided the safest place for me would be a police – _Watch_ – cell. Miss Wiggs assured me the local police would treat me fairly. Meeting Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs assured me that whatever else might be said, the local police aren't monsters. "

"So although at first the esteemed Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs thought _they_ were _your_ captives, you reassured them this was not in fact the case, and you then asked them if they wouldn't mind arresting you and bringing you in?" Vetinari summarised.

"Exactly that, sir. Miss Wiggs conceded they had first right of arrest, especially after the unfortunate incident with the two thieves…"

"You _killed _them, man!" an indignant voice shouted.

"Not _now_, Mr Boggis" Vetinari said, with a hint of irritation.

"You will get a chance to speak later."

He looked at Holtack.

"Mr Boggis is the leader of the Thieves' Guild." he explained. "A complication is that one of the men you killed last night – and the one you robbed but allowed to live – are, or in one case _were_, Guild members. But we will deal with this later. Proceed."

"Sir. I knew that Miss Wiggs would report fully to her own Guild later. Therefore I felt happier knowing that somebody other than the police would be aware I was in a cell. I know how easy it is for people to disappear when they're in secret custody and nobody knows where they are. It tends to happen a lot on Earth… Roundworld."

"Now that's not fair. We _do_ follow due procedure here!" objected Vimes, from somewhere to his right. "_These_ days, at least. If this had happened to you thirty years ago, you would be right to be cautious, though. People did disappear. _Then_."

"And you allowed Sergeant Colon to arrest you?"

"Yes, sir. I knew from talking to him that he's normally Custody Officer, in charge of the welfare of prisoners in the cells. I reasoned that I'd be more likely to get better treatment if I let him arrest the resourceful and dangerous criminal. Something Commander Vimes might be inclined to commend him for. For which he might well express thanks later."

He heard a Vimes-like snort, which might have been anger and which might have been amusement, but did not look round.

"Oh, Sam! He's a sharp young man, isn't he?" An amused cut-glass voice. But a Tamara with a brain.

_Lady Sybil? Mrs Vimes? Horses or gun-dogs? Still, she sounds well-disposed towards me. Good, I need friends. _

"And you were taken, under heavy armed guard, to Pseudopolis Yard, where you were questioned. Good heavens, that music's getting loud, isn't it? We'll return to the interrogation later. First, I propose that your evidence be checked and corroborated. Please resume your seat, Lieutenant, and I will now ask Miss Alice Band to take the witness stand."

Alice Band stood up and crossed to the witness point. She let her eyes cross those of the three Fusiliers, two of whom sat up and looked at her with intent disbelief, the third with an appraising stare that said "_Who are you_?".

_Whoever they know who shares my name and my physical appearance, she is a woman who commands their respect, _thought Alice. _That's comforting, at least. _

_It's Alice, _thought Holtack. _The way she walks has changed a little in those clothes, but it is undeniably her. Her back is ramrod straight, her shoulders square, and her eyes like laser beams. And didn't she say she's _**visited **_Earth? It gets freakier…_

Alice gave her evidence in a brisk no-nonsense voice. Holtack was struck as to how closely her manner and presentation followed that of the Alice Band he knew. He was more humbled by the fact a whole class of student Assassins had been up on the roof watching every little detail of his transition and confrontation with the Thieves – and he hadn't even noticed. _Just as well I told the truth, then. But… after I shot the first thief, I thought I heard a girl scream? Paid it no attention at the time, but now I know what it was. _

"And you also witnessed the old lady with the trolley?" Vetinari interrogated her. "She has been seen in many places around this city over the last few weeks and we've been keen to speak to her. But she always seems to elude the Watch. If she is capable of, ah, slipping between worlds at will, this may explain many things. She may even be the random factor Professor Stibbons has been seeking for, he seventh person who was detected as having crossed worlds."

"It is true I witnessed neither of them in the act of materialising." Alice said. "But my teaching assistant Miss Wiggs witnessed everything. She called my attention to a disturbance below. What I was aware of was the old lady leaving, or being allowed to leave, in the direction of Chittling Street and the Cattlemarket. The thieves evidently thought better of it, or that she was a less worthwhile mark."

"Or a witch." somebody said.

"Quite" agreed Alice, with a smile. Female Assassins respected witches. She herself had once encountered the Lancre witches, after all. **(5)**

"And there was residual light. We had all been aware of a flash of light, of course, but this was octarine-tinged."

"You are sure about that?" Ponder Stibbons inquired. Alice frowned, then smiled slightly.

"I come from a long line of priests, Professor Stibbons. Some priests have things in common with wizards. While I do not class myself as exceptionally magical, I can at least recognise octarine light when it happens. It's also associated with Gods, after all. I saw it as flickering blackness, empty blackness, with just flashes and impressions of the eighth colour. As an Assassin, being able to see a little way further into the octarine than most people is also professionally useful to me. My night vision is very much enhanced, for one thing."

"And it was present when Lieutenant Holtack and the mysterious old lady joined us." Vetinari concluded. "Interesting. Proceed, miss Band".

Alice clinically described Holtack's fight in the alley, drily adding that she was most impressed with his responses and fighting ability, as at first she had him marked down as dead.

_Now **that's** Alice. She'd be just as cerebral and dispassionate and coldly lay bets on the outcome, if she had to lie low and observe a firefight. _

Describing his search of the bodies and interrogation of the surviving Thief, she added that the Guild would indeed very much like to talk to him about his background, experience and training.

"Perhaps, sir, Lieutenant Holtack might want to pray for an Angel." she concluded.

Vetinari gave her a long hard look, but saw only a gentle half-smile.

"I apologise, sir. I am a daughter of the clergy, after all, and angels are the messengers of good news from the Gods."

Vetinari saw nothing but pure sincerity on her face.

"Indeed, miss Band. Indeed. I believe you returned to the Guild with all speed and you had your students write their accounts of the night. Several representatives are with you today, I note. If you would care to introduce them to confirm your evidence?"

Two or three student Assassins confirmed their impressions of the night: one, shamefaced, admitted that she had screamed, or at least shrieked, when the _gonne_ first went off.

And then Jocasta gave her testimony. It was lengthy, it was punctuated by questions from Vetinari and others, and it was eye-opening.

"Thank you, miss Wiggs" Vetinari said, at length. "Most enlightening. And you are the only living Assassin who knows anything about how to use a _gonne, _I note."

Vetinari paused.

"Miss Wiggs, when you handled the weapon, did it _speak_ to you?"

"_Speak_, sir?" Jocasta asked, puzzled. "I don't recall that at any point. I was concentrating on the instructions Phil… Lieutenant Holtack was giving me, about posture and balance and pulling the stock really tightly into my shoulder."

Vetinari made a marginal note.

He paused, scrutinised the way Jocasta's face had reddened slightly, and went on.

"Sergeant Colon claimed it spoke to him, during the brief period of time in which he carried it. He was most uncomfortable with a voice in his head that said he should seek to retrieve the.._ammunition_… and reload. The weapon would make him the most powerful policeman on the Disc."

Vetinari looked across at Holtack. There was a severe aspect to his face as he spoke.

"Lieutenant, has your weapon ever spoken to you, either on this world or your own? I'm aware this might sound like a strange question, but there are reasons for my asking."

"Spoken to me, sir?"

Holtack was aware of rumours that the Yanks were developing a weapon system that verbally interacted with its user, like those cars that the boffins assured you would soon be able to tell you your route, or refuse to start, informing you in a schoolmistressly way that it could not detect signs of your seat-belt having been fastened. He'd seen this demonstrated on _**Tomorrow's World**_, on TV**(6)** . He couldn't see any possible use for it, and a weapon that loudly whispered "your safety catch is off!" just as you were getting into cover could be inimical to health, but reasoned the Yanks were doing it just because they _could._ **(7)**

"Why should it speak to me, sir? It's not alive. It's just a tool. A made thing. A precision tool for killing people, admittedly, but nothing more than that."

Vetinari breathed out. "At some point, lieutenant, I would advise you spend time talking to Professor Stibbons about the possibly unique position of magic on our world. I believe it does not exist on yours, save as a hypothetical or theoretical construct?"

"More of a mythological one, sir!" replied Holtack, genuinely puzzled.

Vetinari nodded, and said nothing.

The same question was posed to Ruijterman and Hughes, who both, puzzled, answered in the negative.

"We will return to this later." Vetinari said. "But for now, let us discuss the information gleaned during your questioning. Commander Vimes?"

Vimes stepped forward, and began to go through his notes concerning the question and answer sessions with the three soldiers. It was a long session, as occasionally a hand would rise and a request was made for further explanation and amplification of a point. Lord Downey and Ponder Stibbons, who from their specialised points of view had been present, also assisted at points where Vimes' knowledge began to flounder.

Holtack was called upon to explain the Northern Ireland situation again, this time to a wider audience, and another flipchart was provided. _Another bloody Orientation, _he thought. _At least I've had lots of chances to practice…_

"Oh, _Hergen_." One of the shinier soldiers said, dismissively. "You have my sympathies!"

Holtack looked at him. He was beginning to think of them as a bunch of braying Woodentops.**(8). **He also gleaned that Hergen had caused these people as much trouble as Ireland had caused us. Wherever Hergen was.

"A _police action_, you say?" said the braying cavalryman with the leopardskin cloak. There was something dismissive in his words, as if he considered it a deeply shaming action for a career army officer to even _think _of acting like a policeman.

Holtack could now clearly see his rank, worn at the cuff as in the old days, in a gilded and embroidered, highly visible, style.

"A police action, colonel." he confirmed.

"And it is not easy to retrain skilled fighting soldiers to get them to think and act like a police force..."

He saw Vimes was regarding him with cool attention. But the cavalry colonel went puce.

"_What did you call me, Lieutenant? Are you not aware of my rank, man?"_

Holtack forced himself to remain calm. He'd had Irish politicals, red-faced with rage, shouting in his face before now. Unfortunately, he felt he couldn't get away with prodding this one in the gut, and besides he had nothing to prod with. He'd have to be diplomatic. He felt Vimes' gaze on him as the hall fell silent.

"Sir, you wear two pips and a crown at your wrist. In my understanding, that's the rank badge of a full Colonel? Therefore I addressed you as such and called you "sir" as protocol dictates…"

_Oh-oh. Wrong answer. _

"I will make allowances just this once for your ignorance and lack of basic etiquette." the cavalryman said, with the sort of easy pomposity that raised Holtack's hackles. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fusilier Hughes making the universal hand gesture for "wanker". Vimes appeared to notice too, and choked back a grin.

"Listen, fellow. I am the thirty-seventh Lord Rust and I have great rank in this city. You address me as "Lord Rust" or "My Lord". My colleagues here, to forestall any further misunderstandings, are Lord Selachii, the Duke of Eorle, and Lord Venturi. Lord Vetinari may be prepared to overlook your addressing him as a mere "sir", and the Duke of Ankh, who you have encountered, has no breeding or refinement _at all_. But I will not tolerate your addressing me as "sir" or "colonel", although it is true I have that substantive rank as commander of three Regiments. I am "My Lord" to _you_. Is that clearly understood?"

"May I explain to you how it is in my Army, sir?" Holtack said, politely. "It is true I come from a monarchy and a country where a class system still has strength. I'm not entirely ignorant of these things."

His mind went back to a long-ago classroom session with other student officers.

"We are taught that except in the case of the monarch and senior members of the Royal Household, military rank takes precedent over social rank. If I encounter a Lord or a Duke in uniform as an Army officer, then their military rank always takes precedent. Always. Otherwise it would be unworkeable. A second lieutenant who happens to be a Lord would outrank a colonel who happens to be a commoner. Some armies have really come to grief over that one."**(9)**

"_**But that's the way it is, man!" **_Rust exploded. "Earlier on, you damn-well ignored us and saluted the Brigadier over there!"

"Because the Brigadier is the highest uniformed rank present here. Sir. In normal military convention, a salute to the highest rank is accepted as encompassing all lower subordinate ranks who happen to be present. Sir."

Holtack never normally used words like "encompassing" in normal speech. But this pompous Colonel was annoying him. It was worth a bit of dumb insolence to see exactly how big a prick Colonel Lord Rust turned out to be.

"And besides, the highest rank of all is on the shoulder of Commander Vimes. I understand he's a policeman and not a soldier. But on my world, that rank badge makes him a General. Sir."

"_You are not on your own damn world any more!" _Rust exploded. He gathered control over himself, with an effort.

"Let me make it abundantly clear. Lieutenant. _Mister_ Mountjoy-Standfast may hold the military rank of Brigadier. But he is still only a _mister_ with no social connections! I, on the other hand, am a Lord of this City! _I out-rank him_! "

"Dear me." Vetinari said mildly. "While this little exchange has been constructive insofar of what it reveals of the relaxed British attitude to social rank, I do not believe it is advancing the discussion very much. Lord Venturi, you wish to speak?"

The red-faced choleric man –who should really have adopted a tunic colour other than red, as to Holtack's eyes he looked like a bucolic beetroot – stepped forward , hitched his plumed helmet under his arm, and said

"My Lord, we _were_ considering, should he be here for any length of time, and looking as he does a man who is no threat to the City, offerin' this Lieutenant Holtack a provisional commission in one of our Regiments to see how he shapes up. _Noblesse oblige_, and all that. And those two soldiers of his look like handy men. "

Venturi glared at Holtack.

"But he's just blown his chances, I'm afraid. No _breedin'._ No _character._ Neither a _chap_ nor a _gentleman_."

"Just as well, really" said Holtack, brightly. "Some of the officers in my regiment ride to hounds." The Welch had an arrangement with the Life Guards stud down the road: any officers, and enlisted men, who could ride, got to ride the horses for free. It helped the Guards train them for mounted duties in London. Holtack had successfully avoided this particular Purgatory.

"I've never had anything to do with horses. Never have. Wouldn't know where to start, to be honest. From your point of view, an officer who keeps falling off would be bad for discipline."

"_You can't ride?" _the Duke of Eorle breathed in sheer disbelief. In his world, being able to ride was a prerequisite for an officer. "And you're an _officer_? Funny damn sort of officer who can't ride!"

Holtack shook his head again.

"On my world, sir, horses declined in importance with the introduction of motor vehicles…"

He saw the blank faces. But that little boffin sort of chap, with the big bald head, was looking up, excitedly.

"Self-propelled…wagons… using the internal combustion engine… never mind, I can explain more later. But we have self-propelled wagons that can carry men, weapons, loads, that used to be horse-transported. Our Army depends on them. We still keep a number of horses on the strength, as we have ceremonial cavalry regiments and a horse-artillery regiment used only for ceremonial displays. To be honest, though, the last time the British Army used cavalry in combat is getting on for over sixty years ago, now."**(10)**

"No cavalry…" Venturi and Selachii both looked stricken. Horrified, even. "No _horses_...How do you _manage_, man? What do you use instead?"

"Tanks!" Holtack said, airily. "Armoured cars. Armoured personnel carriers. Lorries and heavy vehicles for transport and gun-towing. Ah. I'm losing you all again…"

"Again, Lieutenant, these things might be discussed at a later date." Vetinari said, almost hastily. "And yes, Leonard, I see you're bursting to ask about how Roundworld made the …_infernal combustion enigma_…. work, where your best endeavours have so far failed. Another time, Leonard? Thank you."

Brigadier Mountjoy-Standfast**(11) **had so far refrained from comment, but he gave Holtack an encouraging and amused smile. Vimes was openly grinning and raising a fist in a thumbs-up.

"Professor Stibbons, this might be an appropriate time for you to break a certain agonising suspense and explain to the assembly what you know about Roundworld, and what I believe is termed the Doppelganger Effect? Thank you."

Ponder took the floor.

"Some time ago, the Roundworld Project, which has been explained to you all in outline, developed an interesting malfunction." He began. "One of the principal field researchers, the Egregious Professor of Cruel and Un-natural Geography, a man who has spent more time in the Project than any other researcher, was unaccountably rejected by it. We discovered, on experiment, that nearly sixty years of Roundworld history was closed to him and he could not enter the Project at any point on this timeline. It was as if the planet had rejected him, for some reason, as every attempt to insinuate him bounced him straight back to us."**(12) **

Holtack raised a diffident hand.

"Excuse me for asking… Professor, how exactly do you send people into Earth-Roundworld? If you can do this at will, is it possible to return us all straight away?"

Ponder frowned.

"I don't want to give you false hopes, Lieutenant. Our earliest indications about your predicament suggest we need to bring together all seven humans who crossed over and return them together. HEX has been computing and suggests there may even have been an eighth, previously overlooked."

_Six Fusiliers. One bag-lady. Who's the eighth? Her cat? _An uneasy thought niggled at Holtack. He sensed he was overlooking something. _Never mind, it'll become apparent. Don't worry at it, do the job that's in front of you. You're in potentially enough shit here as it is. If you carry on making friends and influencing people like you did with Rust. _

Ponder went on to explain about the "_there-but-not-there_" suits. Holtack could follow this with difficulty. _**Tomorrow's World**_ had recently speculated that with a vast increase in computing power becoming possible over the next fifty or so years, it might be possible to don something dubbed a _virtual reality_ suit and directly enter the computer programme. Which then became your reality. There were rumours that this virtual reality thing might even play a part in the speculative science of the future, in the much-touted new series of _**Star Trek**_. But that was still in the planning stage, according to the papers, and wouldn't be out even in America much before 1987.

_But how can they have a supercomputer without electricity? Is it an application of this "magic" that Lord Vetinari advised me to find out about and take seriously?_

He forced himself to concentrate. He found it interesting that at least five people in the room had at some point entered Roundworld – they'd visited Earth – but in the suits, had been invisible to the residents. Holtack recalled something in the UFO literature about people seeing beings in silvery costumes partially materialise, and then go about various abstract activities as if they were completely invisible to the people watching. In fact, in one case, there had been confusion and panic on the part of the entities when they realised they were visible and people were watching them – it was as if they'd been soundlessly shouting to an unseen Controller to abort the exercise, on which they promptly disappeared, leaving their observers wondering what the bloody point of all that was.

"Yes, Lieutenant. Sometimes we suspect we have left a trace." Ponder confirmed, reading the look on his face. "But our operating philosophy is to tread unseen and leave nothing altered by our presence."

"I'm also wondering if this might explain ghost sightings." Holtack mused. "Or some of them, anyway."

He then heard that Alice Band, this world's Alice, was a frequent visitor, but that was as part of a long-term archaeological project. She was keen to go right back to the old civilisations, and do what no other archaeologist had ever been able to do before – watch, over a period of thousands of years, a once-living civilization dwindle and die and become archaeology. How did the layers concrete over a city? What artefacts survived and why? What specific changes occur over time?

"It'll get me my Professorship." she said, smugly. "But I assure you, Lieutenant, I have never visited the Roundworld in _your _time. There are strict rules about Assassins visiting civilizations that have evolved _gonne_ technology. They boil down to – you can't, basically."

The Boer girl, Johanna Smith-Rhodes, was similarly constrained on her African expeditions: she could have all the wildlife she wanted, so long as it was pre-1550. _Which explains why she knows so little about South Africa's later history, _he reflected.

"And I em sure the primitive blecks saw me." she said. "I returned to a cave I knew et a point some years later down the timeline. There were cave paintings where there hed been none before."**(13)**

""It took a little working out" Ponder said, getting back on track. "But we worked out that the reason why Professor Rincewind was unable to enter the Roundworld for those sixty years was basically because in a very real sense, he was already there. A duplicate of the Professor existed on the Roundworld – was born, lived, and eventually died. He filled the psychic space marked "Rincewind" and made it impossible for our Rincewind to cross between worlds. And he was the first. The second was Mr Twoflower, the Agatean ambassador. Sporadically, since then, we have discovered several others. I'm certain Miss Band will be the twenty-third. With her permission, we can perform the standard tests."

"Professor, I don't doubt you." Alice said, with sincerity. "But surely there must be something that links us, if we're the same person born in two different places?"

"You might have had occasional odd dreams about living your life in a strange place" Ponder said. "At times of great stress or psychic strain, the wall breaks down and you can become aware of each other. As a general rule, we also find the names are, as often as not, virtually identical and there are pronounced similarities in life – parental occupation, social class, occupation, interests, the person's , er, sexual tendencies and gender preferences, choice of partner or partners, and so forth."

There was a muted snigger from somewhere in the hall, hastily cut off as Alice flushed, turned and glared.

Holtack remembered the whispered rumours about his Alice Band.

"Lieutenant Holtack," Ponder said. "To save a little time, is there anything you know about your Alice Band that you could not possibly get from your brief acquaintance with miss Band on this world? A hobby, an interest, a physical marking, perhaps?"

He thought back. He'd once seen Alice in a bathing costume at a private house party for officers. It had been a sight that had made married men stop talking and go very thoughtful for a moment, and single men want to howl at the moon. Major Jeffries, the Army vet, had spilt his pipe as he tried to refill it.

Alice had had….

"Miss Band, I apologize if this might embarrass you" he said, carefully. "But halfway up the inside of your left thigh, do you have three dark brown moles, in line with each other?"

Alice went bright red.

"I would be very interested" she said, slowly, "to know how you got to find _that_ out. Yes, Lieutenant. As a matter of fact, I do. And I suppose you know about the one on the small of my back as well?"

Holtack said nothing. Alice hadn't been wearing a bikini on the day. There were limits. He noticed she was wearing a high neck to her blouse.

"I can't speak for your back, ma'am." He said. "But there is also a dark mole on the right-hand side of your neck."

He'd seen that often enough, in her normal work-wear.

"It is as he says." she confirmed to Ponder. The room burst into astonished conversation.

"Come to the HEM soon, Miss Band" Ponder requested. "We'll perform the standard tests. Within limits, should you wish, you can have an edited look at your other self."

"And the limits are, Professor Stibbons?"

"Well, what do _you_ consider completely private and personal, Miss Band?"

There was a pause. Alice contemplated.

"Point taken" she agreed.

"Ethically speaking, watching your other self in public and going about her everyday work is not intrusion," Ponder elucidated.

"Professor Stibbons, there are perhaps twenty-five million, at most, human inhabitants of Discworld. There are over four billion Roundworlders. Simple mathematics tells me not every Roundworlder has a doppelganger here."

"Exactly right, sir. But every Discworlder has a doppelganger there. That is the inescapable result of the logic. They are not all at the same point on the timeline, either. Evidence waiting to be corroborated suggests that your own may be a political philosopher on the Italian peninsula, some six hundred years before the time of Mr Holtack. Thee are other possible candidates."

Vetinari nodded. "As time permits, we can ascertain the truth of that proposition. Mr Holtack, you find something amusing?"

"I was reflecting, sir. Lord Rust, if he doesn't mind me remarking so, has a strong personal resemblance to one of our most famous Generals. I was also debating how far there is a resemblance to another military leader who made his mark as a famous leader of cavalry."

"My double on your world may have lived and died, but was a great cavalry general?" Rust visibly preened.

"Indeed, my Lord" Holtack said, smoothly. "I've only ever seen paintings of Lord Cardigan, but they have an uncanny resemblance to yourself. And let me assure you that while his day was over a hundred years ago, he is still famous for the unique and unforgettable way he handled a cavalry brigade. It is still taught in military academies now, in fact!"

"You said there was another?"

"Yes, sir. Like Cardigan, an American cavalry general entered the halls of fame for the way he led his men into battle. Again, General Custer's example is still taught in military academies and it is possible it always will be."

"I am inclined to entertain the possibility there is something in you worth redeeming, Lieutenant Holtack."

"Thank you, my Lord!" Holtack said, smoothly.

_Until he realises Cardigan led the Light Brigade and Custer led the Seventh Cavalry, _Holtack thought, allowing himself a little smile. He felt he'd earned it.

He noted Vetinari making an other marginal note. It appeared to read "Tennyson". Holtack was reminded that this was a man who was also a keen student of Roundworld….

And then the ordeal broke up for lunch.

* * *

**(1) **As mentioned in a footnote somewhere else, a side-effect of the Brutha revolution in Omnianism had been the mutation of the Divine Legion, formerly the horribly beweaponed shock-troops of the Church, into the Divine Army of Salvation: still an Army, still organised as Legions, still uniformed, but this time armed with nothing more lethal than brass band instruments, hymn sheets, and pamphlets such as the _Battle Call _and_ Unadorned Facts. _The Legion also ran the spikes, hostels where homeless people might get soup, bread, a bed – and a lengthy sermon – for a night. The city's homeless moved on to avoid the Salvation Legion when it came calling.

**(2) **OK, so it started life as the "Llamas" song in Monty Python….

**(3) **Note for non-British readers or just the generally perplexed: "Iron Hoof" is Cockney rhyming slang. Go figure.

**(4) **The _**tawse**_ is a method of discipline now almost extinct in most British schools. Originating in Scotland and ball accounts still present in its stricter private schools, it is a thick leather strap between nine and eleven inches long, designed to cause maximum pain if strapped against the hand or palm of an errant pupil. Its principal use now is in illustrated magazines aimed at a certain special- interest group among gentlemen of _discernment_ and _taste. _It is fair to suspect these rather basic weapons of class-control are still freely used on the Disc.

**(5) **See my story _**The Lancre Caper**_

**(6) **_**Tomorrow's World **_was the sort of severely optimistic science and technology programme that ran on British TV from the 1960's to the 1980's. It looked at advances in science and technology and confidently told us what we could expect to be using and wearing by the year 2000. It completely missed mobile phones and advanced PC's, but confidently predicted self-cleaning clothes, DeLorean style cars, and renewable energy replacing oil which would all be used up by 1990 at latest..Although it was on the money with sat-nav.

**(7) **It is believed that the magickal sword Kring, which spoke to its user and loudly criticised every aspect of Rincewind's sword-fighting ability during a life-or-death duel, was the result of a similar arms-technology-enhancement exercise on a distant world, leading its first owner to throw it out of a moving spacecraft, from whence it drifted to the Discworld…

**(8) **A prejudice common to the rest of the British Army is that the soldiers of the Household Division are fit for nothing else except parading up and down outside Buckingham Palace in gleaming ceremonial uniforms and that they never, ever, leave their comfortable barrack postings in Central London. The amount of intelligence thought necessary to be a Guardsman, a cavalryman in the Blues and Royals or a gunner in the Royal Horse Artillery is about on a par with that which creates a PE teacher, a car-park attendant or a municipal park-keeper. Some bright spark nicknamed them after the animated toy soldiers in a children's show aimed at five year olds, and the Woodentops stuck. For the record, they are extremely hard-working soldiers who are taught to fight as modern line infantrymen, tank crews and gunners respectively, as well as performing ceremonial duties, and who divide their year between the aforementioned luxury London barracks and either Germany or Northern Ireland. But then, the truth is not as funny as the calumny…

**(9) **Holtack might have cited the Austro-Hungarian Army of the middle 1700's, who were routed and destroyed at a crucial battle when two junior generals, who were Lords and connected to the Royal Household, took umbrage at obeying orders from a Field-Marshal who had risen on his own merits and remained a mere Mister. Even though the Field-Marshal was right in every respect, and had orders been obeyed the battle would have been won, their haughty disobedience of orders originating from a lowly commoner allowed the Turks to slice the army to kebab meat. The Turks, who had no such qualms about the nominal slave who was General of Jannissaries issuing orders to the sons of Caliphs and Princes who held lower military rank, were in their day the best army in the world. Afterwards, the court-martial found the socially unconnected Field-Marshal guilty and exonerated the two Royal Princes. It would take another sixty years and a similarly gifted commoner called Napoleon Bonaparte to rout both Turks and Austrians alike. The Empire never recovered and staggered on, under the weight of archaic social etiquette, to final dissolution in 1919.

**(10) **In 1985, the last time horsed cavalry had been used in anger by the British was during the Fourth Afghan War in the early 1920's. Some nations, such as France and Russia, retained cavalry for much longer – horsed Cossacks fought until 1945. Russia only disbanded its active cavalry divisions in 1954 (although retaining Cossack regiments for ceremonial duties). However, if Holtack ever gets back to Earth (giving nothing away here) he might discover thirteen years later that in 1998, British cavalry units sent to Yugoslavia discovered they had to patrol areas where even the best tracked vehicles could not go. They reverted to using horses, leading to old skills being rediscovered, such as how to fire from the saddle without falling off. So perhaps the last time the British used horsed cavalry in combat – with Serb irregulars – was in fact 1998….

**(11) **I know. I put his daughter through the Assassins' Guild School as a contemporary of Jocasta Wiggs under the name of Emilia Mountjoy-_**Standish**_. My slip. This is one of a million beta-reading issues which are to be addressed at some point.

**(12) **See my novella _**Doppelgangers. **_

**(13) **Our old mate Erich von Daniken used the South African cave and wall paintings as evidence aliens had visited….


	29. HG Wells, where art thou?

_**Slipping Between Worlds 28**_

The crowd in Hide Park fell silent, looking as one in the direction of the north-west. Still un-noticed in their undergrowth basha, Powell and Williams craned their ears for the latest rumour. Apparently the deadly aliens had been seen lumbering down the Edgeway Road, bulbous battle-units on their monstrous fifty-foot battle-tripods, blasting any luckless soul in sight with their deadly heat-rays, driving the panic-stricken humans before them.

A family having a picnic lunch not far away from where the two soldiers were hidden appeared to contemplate this for an instant, then shrugged and went back to their sandwiches, unconcerned.

"Nah" said the father, dismissively. "Can't see it. Edgeway's only about half a mile over there. We'd be seein' flames and smellin' smoke and hearin' the screams and explosions by now."

"Besides," said the mother, "They'd be invadin' Nob Hill and leavin' the rest of us alone. Can't see that. Nob Hill looks after its own and the City Lords all live there. Any death-dealing alien on a fifty foot tripod'd be havin' words with Ol' Stoneface by now. They got golems and trolls in the Watch, right?"

"And how much golem does it need to grab a tripod by the leg and tip it over?" demanded the father. "Your golem, right, fundamentally impervious to death-rays. And fire one at a _troll_, it'll just get scorched and mad. Bloody unstable things, tripods. I mean, how do they move? We all saw your Uncle Henry after he broke his leg and had to move between two crutches. He din't so much _walk _as_ lurch_. Talk about a laugh! Plant the two crutches firmly forward, right, swing your good leg forward, balance, swing the two crutches forward again. Spent more time fallin'over, and I tell you what, he couldn't do stairs!"

The family laughed, appreciatively.

"Wouldn't it be a bit top-heavy, dad?" inquired a child. "I mean, that big round fighting machine with the alien in must weigh something, so how does it stay up if it's on three spindly great legs?"

"And then there are these other aliens, daddy! The ones they say look like pepper-pots with sink-plungers sticking out of the front. All we need to do is climb a flight of stairs and drop things on them from above, like, like…"

"A blanket with a weight tied to each corner, soaked in lamp-oil. Then you flick a match on it. Stands to reason they got to breathe like anything else, and if all they're breathing is smoke and flame…"

Powell looked at Williams.

"If we ever get back, boy, we got to report that these people is born guerrilla fighters. Whatever we do, do not have a war with them, on their own streets!"

"That thing with the oil-soaked blanket." Williams mused. "Didn't Mr Holtack say once that it's a good reason why not to send a tank or an APC down an urban street? Get one of _those _on the engine deck and all of a sudden you're sucking in fire to the engine and through the air-intakes. Low-tech combat, he called it. How to kill a million pounds worth of tank with a fiver's worth of weapon!"**(1)**

Powell grunted. Both of them had seen trolls in the park and had exchanged puzzled looks at something out of their experience: but whatever the big stone-people were, they seemed to be perfectly accepted by humans, and anyway seemed to come in the same sort of peaceable family units of male, presumed female, and kids. Powell still would not have cared to end up in a fight with one, though.

But these things called _gollums? (_**2)** A long-ago memory emerged of Miss Parry reading "the Hobbit" to seven-year olds at first school. Powell thought about the nearby father's cheerful belief that they could down a few aliens.

_Maybe you tell him the alien's thieved his Precious and it's in the cab up the top, _Powell speculated. _The evil little bastard is going to be up that tripod like a rat up a drainpipe. _In this strange place, anything was possible.

The crowd appeared to be thinning out in the Park, anyway.

They settled down to wait.

* * *

Having called a lunch recess, Vetinari was dealing with routine City business and listening to the updates on the crowds in the streets. He heard the rumours about tripods and pepperpots with a tight little smile, and noted that when this was all over, he'd have to find something constructive for those rather imaginatively creative people from AMUFORA to do. Ideally, _not_ the sort of use of creative imagination that added oil to a fire.

The three visitors had been segregated to eat lunch in a private dining room. A Watch guard had accompanied them, along with Miss Wiggs from the Guild. It was accepted that she had a unique bond with the most important detainee, and Vetinari was confident in her ability to note and report back on anything he let slip over lunch. _He's tired, his guard is slipping, or he'd never have had that unproductive clash with Ronald Rust. He's about to eat a good lunch, with wine, in the presence of a sympathetic young woman who he clearly finds attractive, who is trained to listen and ask the right questions. And Clerk Harold will be in attendance, unknown to any of them. Capital. _

A Dark Clerk came to him and saluted.

"An update from the hospital, sir. I'm sorry it took so long getting here…"

Vetinari read the despatch, frowned, and sent for Vimes, Ponder Stibbons and Lord Downey. He reasoned that between the three of them, they'd come up with a working plan. They had better; all his instincts about there being a real threat to the city were suddenly on alert.

Wordlessly, Vetinari passed the message around.

Ponder whistled.

"Unto us a child is born, it seems." said Downey.

"How's Igor?" demanded Vimes.

"No doubt Igor is in the best of hands. Or more accurately, the best of hands are currently in Igor." Vetinari remarked. "More importantly, why has the latest incarnation of the shopping-mall parasite chosen to take _this_ shape? And I cannot help but reflect that our previous plan, for discreetly conveying this thing across the City for maximum-security confinement at the Zoo, has rather been overtaken by events."

"There's no way at present to load it onto a secure wagon - under golem escort, as we now know the thing defends itself by oozing strong acid - and taking it by road, sir, as we originally planned." Vimes confirmed.

Vetinari nodded.

"Professor Stibbons. Your assessment was that if the thing can be conveyed to the Zoo, the joint agencies of the Department of Paranormal Life Science and Cryptozoology, backed by Miss Smith-Rhodes' most efficient security measures, would suffice to hold it in most secure custody. While, gratifyingly, I am aware there have been no escapes from the Zoo in the time it has been established, for such a creature as this, would it still hold?"

"I am still mostly certain, sir." Ponder said. "But to be completely sure, I would need to view the creature."

"Miss Smith-Rhodes is nearby, sir." Downey said. "Perhaps her judgement would be in order here?"

Instructions were given. Johanna joined them, holding a plate of buffet food. She ate as she listened. Vetinari tolerated this; Vimes wished he'd had the sense to grab something too.

"And why do you think the nature of the threat has changed? The fact this thing lived on for long enough to evolve, after I'm sure I gave clear instructions for its destruction, is worrying to me. And once there, can you keep it there?" the Patrician asked, urgently.

"Sir, the only thing about Zoo security thet gives me cause for concern is this. All the runs end cages end enclosures heve been designed, end redesigned in the light of experience, to prevent eny enimel from getting out of its own volition. I hev no worries ebout enimel escapes. However, we cannot completely guard egainst human stupidity end greed. Every so often, people still try to steal enimels from the Petting Zoo, for instance. Young girls, ill-edvisedly, who went a cute pet. Now we search on the wey out, this hes been cut to a minimum."

"Johanna. Please don't tell me you propose to put it in the Petting Zoo?" Vimes asked. Vetinari frowned. "I mean, only a golem could ever hope to pet the thing! Or is it some sort of test for student Assassins?"

"Herdly that, Mr Vimes!" she said. "But enimel _theft_, for whetever reason, is a concern. I hope I em not being racialist in eny wey…"

Johanna felt three sets of sceptical eyes on her. _Ag, I walked right into that one!_

"…but there is the thriving trade in Auriental medicines made from enimel parts. My night security Golems recently hed cause to detain several Agatean nationals caught in the Zoo efter dark, who hed tranquiliser derts end butchering knives. We believe they were efter the tigers. **(3) **I would be obliged, my Lord, if you deliver the hardest sentence possible…"

"Noted, Miss Smith-Rhodes. Carry on."

"And the Guild of Assassins, as the majority shareholder in the Zoo, has also sent out a _very_ clear message to the Agatean criminal society involved, that it will tolerate no further such intrusions by night." Lord Downey said, smoothly. **(4) **Vimes scowled: he wasn't happy that the Assassins had taken over security at the Zoo, although he had demanded - and got - permission to establish a temporary Watch-house there at times where peak demand justified it, such as when the new pandas had arrived from Agatea and provoked unprecedented public attention. With visitors to the Zoo at an al-time high, Vimes had insisted the Watch have a presence there, at least for crowd and traffic control duties. His only problem had been ensuring it was recognised that Nobby Nobbs was a Watchman and not an escaped exhibit, and to ensure Sergeant Angua didn't spend all her time talking to the timber wolves for their frank opinion of life in captivity. He resolved to vector a few night patrols to the Zoo, if only to keep an eye on the sodding Assassins and ensure anyone they detained for acting suspiciously remained humed enough to stand trial later.

"I hev elso instructed my steff to note any ettempts et bribery end report them to me instantly," Johanna added. "Although golems cennot be bribed, es you know."

"And I understand senior students who are doing the module in bodyguarding and security consultacy also patrol the premises by night as part of their training." Vetinari remarked. "Well, you seem to have every contingency guarded against, as far as is humanly possible. However, if a patently insane or unbalanced person tried to liberate a dangerous animal on a whim or because the voices in their head told them to, this would come under the heading of "unpredictable" and would therefore be hard to guard against, save by constant vigilance. Such is human nature."

Vetinari sighed.

"Professor, can you explain the mutation these things underwent? First, metal wagons by the thousand. And now, flying leeches of some sort, defending a New Queen who is nurtured in a nearly-human body and who exudes acid as defence."

Ponder braced himself for some direct, intelligent, questioning. After a working lifetime trying to explain things to the Faculty, this was an area where he lacked experience.

"I have thought about it, sir, and sought thre opinions of my colleagues in Cryptozoolology. While it is too early to know for certain, my theory is this. The original Hive was seriously damaged by the concerted action of a group of Undead. The member of this group who caused the most serious damage was a vampire. Therefore, in the long years while the near-dead hive sought to rebuild itself, some sort of intelligence was at work. It reasoned that if the threat that nearly destroyed it came from a vampire, then the next generation must model itself on vampires so as to be stronger than the entity that damages it. And we know through study that the defensive drones it created were not especially effective. If enough landed on an attacker, they could drag him down, suck his blood, and kill him. Which, unfortunately, happened. But they were otherwise ineffectual."

Vimes glared at him.

"Are you trying to tell me that those things modelled themselves on _Arthur Winkling_?"

"Yes, sir, Because he was the only vampire they'd met, and from their point of view, one who got close enough to strike a killing blow."

Vetinari considered this.

"My goodness." he said. "It's just as well it never encountered a more, ah, _capable_ vampire. Such as miss von Humpedinck or, Gods having seemingly forbidden, one of the de Magpyrs."

"But we require a means of safely and securely transporting the thing to the Zoo" Downey reminded them. "As quickly as possible, without using the roads."

"Four miles, as the crow flies." said Ponder, thoughtfully.

"Or Doctor Lawn is going to get very vexed. And I can tell you he has a magnificent command of language when he's irritated." said Vimes.

"Hey, Olga! _Bro_!" said Johanna, recognising the familiar figure who was fighting a way through the milling buffet-eaters, a broomstick in one hand. She was in Watch uniform, but wore a truncated and slightly swept-back pointy black hat with a chequered blue and white band around the brim. A set of flying goggles were pushes up onto her forehead.

"Jo! _Brat_!" replied the Witch-Police Constable (flying). They quickly embraced and hugged.

"How are you both getting on with the pegasii?" Johanna inquired. **(5)**

"Brillyantly!" said Olga Romanoff. "Yuri says if she ever has another nose-bleed, the next are yours for the Zoo."

"My eye in the sky, sir. Constable Romanoff. How's it looking from up there?"

Olga swiftly reported on the state of the crowds, and said that all available air-police units were up there observing. However, Sergeant Swires and Constable Politek were on a longer-range patrol investigating reports of panicked refugees leaving Quirm and Pseudopolis in some numbers.

"Which leaves you and your ground crews." Vetinari observed.

"The Schmidt Brothers are both experienced test-pilots, sir, and special constables. So is Herr Focker." Olga replied.

"Oh, yes. the Messers Schmidt. And Herr Focker." said Vetinari, neutrally. "And your new man, Mr Oyeff. By the way, how _is_ the triplane broomstick design coming along?"

Olga looked as grave as only a Far Zlobenian can. "We are advised _not _to test-fly it inside the city, sir, as the sonic boom breaks windows." she said. "But in principle the design functions. And Mig Oyeff has some quite startling designs of his own to prove."

"And the Schmidts, I see, are up to Design Number Two Hundred and Sixty-One."

"Yes, sir. We have been refining and redesigning the humble broomstick for a long time now. WPC Politek and myself fly the tried and trusted ME109 design. We also have the ME110, a two-seater with a far longer range before it needs to be recharged with magic. The brothers really believe their next one will be a technomantic breakthrough."

"I see." Vetinari paused. "the _Messers Schmidt 262._ Fascinating." He paused again "And while you were both training as witches in Lancre, did Mistress Weatherwax have anything to say about your interest in broomstick technomancy? I'm sure she would not have refrained from expressing opinion."

"Well, sir, she did admit it was only right and proper that some witches was taking an interest and asking questions of the Dwarfs as to how it all worked." Olga said. "After all, she said, there's a witch for everything and it wouldn't be right if there were never a witch who didn't want to go deep into broomsticks. But she also said it _weren't_ natural and we'd come a cropper one day, mark her words."

Vertinari nodded, sagely.

"Which is why you invented the parachute." he said, studying the large rucksack on her back. "Or at least, took a pre-existing design of Leonard's and made it work. And so she sent you both here, at Sir Samuel's request, to augment the Air Police. In return, he took on your ground crews and gave you a place to continue your experiments when you are off duty. Commendable. But what I would like to know is. Can you fly a very hazardous cargo across the City from the Lady Sybil Hospital to the Zoo, as quickly and safely as possible? I will clacks the Zoo so they know to expect you."

"Please brief me, sir." Olga requested. "I need to know if this cargo can prove dangerous either to myself or my broom in flight. If it does, we will have to work out a strategy to protect ourselves, as well as to deliver it safely."

* * *

Possibly the happiest man in Ankh-Morpork that Octeday was Captain Ralph Harrap, of the nascent Royal Ankh-Morporkian Navy, as he stood on the bridge of his command. Following the frankly embarrassing almost-war with Klatch over the Brigadoon island of Leshp, the Patrician had seen the need for an about-turn on his previous policy of allowing the city's armed forces to dwindle to a handful of largely ineffective private regiments officered by incompetents. It had been the same strategy Vetinari had used to render the City Watch an obsolescence, only on the grand scale. And everyone had seen the way the Watch had remorselessly bounced back, under the joint control of Sam Vimes and Carrot, to what it was now.

Vetinari had been forced to reconsider and see there were certain advantages to a strong Watch under the direct command of a loyal subordinate.

So it was also with the Armed Forces, Harrapp reflected. The most obvious effect of the War had been that Lord Rust had paraded his regiment in the Broadways around the Palace, and forced a _coup d'état _by advising Vetinari of the fact that there were no loyal soldiers for miles around save those answering to Rust. Therefore he, Lord Rust, was going to take over as Patrician, at least for the duty of the emergency, so if you don't mind, Havelock?

The other lasting lesson of the War was that no Ankh-Morporkian army was going to get very far without ships to carry them and other, purpose-built ships, to defend the troop-transports. During that war, Harrapp had commanded the _Prid of Ankh-Morpork_, the best and newest ship available, and on one memorable occasion had threatened to put Rust in the brig if he did not respect the right of a Navy officer to command his own ship. Harrapp had taken care to back himself up with a squad of villainous-looking marines, and Rust had blinked and backed down from trying to command the ship as well as his own forces.

It had been the making of Harrapp, who later on had admitted that he had been inches away from making Rust walk the plank. Whatever that was. He was sure there'd be an experienced Chief Petty Officer on hand to advise him, there always was.

After the war and his reinstatement, Vetinari had been forced to concede there were some advantages to be gained from investing in armed forces that would only and always be loyal to the Patrician and to his lawfully appointed representative. Backed by the seemingly bottomless purse of the Duke of Ankh, the first thing was that the old Palace Guards became the nucleus for a full Regiment of Palace Guards Infantry. As this regiment was being raised, the old crumbling Barbican was taken down and the site cleared, so that a Guards Barracks could be established on the other side of Broadway from the Palace.

Experimentation into refining and improving the "barking dog" technology of the Agateans had commenced, and had latterly led to the formation of a Horse Artillery Regiment, also based on the Barbican – the only Army barracks _inside_ the city walls, as Vimes had artlessly mentioned to the Old Lords.

And the New Model Army was also, now, a New Model Navy.

Harrap stood poudly at the bridge of the H.A.M.M.S. _Thundercloud, _the first new purpose-built warship to be commissioned since the Mary Jane, several hundred years before. The _Prid _had been retained, as flagship of the new Navy: but Thundercloud was long and deadly. Harrapp knew that under conditions of great secrecy, a _submarine _had been dredged up from the Ankh estuary and had been recommissioned. Others like it, but bigger and better, were being built in the Navy yards upriver.

It was all a far cry from his graduation from the military academy some thirty-odd years ago. One of a handful of cadets who had romantically expressed a preference for a Navy career, the new sub-lieutenant Harrapp, a sailor with no ship, had been sent to an Army regimet as "naval liaison officer" just in time for the Glorious Revolution. Oh, Tom Wrangle had apologised later, certainly, but at the time Harrapp had been the most expendable man to send on a humiliating mission to negotiate with that man Keel who led the rebels. **(6)**

He following years had been a miserable slog, commanding inshore Coastguard patrol boats (skiffs) and working for the Ankh-Morpork Harbour Authority, sometimes with the Customs people as they did a raid on a suspect vessel, sometimes acting as taxi-driver to ferry pilots to and from ships. But then the Leshp war came and he had finally got his big break.

It crossed his mind as to who was ultimately paying for all this. Perhaps Lady Sybil had put pressure on her husband, reminding him of the Ramkin family's time-honoured commitment to raise Regiments. "And would _you_ like to see Ronnie Rust back in the Oblong Office, Sam? You're doing this for good reasons now."

Perhaps Vetinari had pointed out to Vimes that it is unwise for a subordinate to embarrass his superior in public. At a time when Vetinari could scarcely raise half a million to revitalise and rebuild the City's crumbling infrastructure, Vimes had been pressured publicly by William de Worde to put a figure on how much he could make available to repair and refurbish those parts of the City that were owned by the Ramkin family. As Vetinari had no doubt remarked later, plucking the sum of five million out of the air, some ten times more than is available to me for my Undertaking, is not going to be seen as supportive of your Patrician, is it? Or perhaps some of it _could _be used to usefully underwrite an idea or two I have had for modernisation of our armed forces…

And the H.A.M.M.S. Thundercloud was an early result. Three hundred and fifty feet long, powered by two huge paddlewheels, one located halfway down each side and augmented by masts, she was a classic of design.

The paddlewheels were ultimately geared to a treadmill operated by golems. It was held to be cruel to send trolls to sea, as like most other creatures they breathed air, and were heavier than water. A troll would drown with no hope of rescue. _Well, most trolls, anyway,_ reflected Harrapp. Golems did not need to breathe, and could walk home from a sinking ship. They could also propel her to forty-eight knots. Harrapp was sure in emergencies they could go faster, but at forty-eight the bearings started to smoulder and his Engineering Officer had kittens.

Fore and aft, a rotating barbette housed two of the new artillery _cannon. _As with the sixteen that ranged the gun-deck below, eight per side, the recoil problem was slowed by installing them on metal rails that allowed the weapon to slide backwards into a buffer, where it may safely be reloaded and rolled back into the firing position again.

The two _barbettes_ on deck mounted the heaviest cannon, and could be turned by means of a geared turnpike. Here, his two seagoing trolls, Able Seatrolls Pumice and Tufa, came into their own. As both were keen swimmers and made of lighter-than-water rock, but possessed with all the power of full-grown male trolls, they were ideal gunners. Well-ounded troll rumour said that they were _ahoograhaa,**(7)**_ but this was the Navy: you expected that sort of thing, and Harrapp was broad-minded and allowed much, so long as it did not compromise the operational efficiency of his ship.

The prow was reinforced with steel in case it had to perform a last-ditch ramming action, and on her shakedown cruise through the Circle Sea, Harrapp had estimated they could break the record time to Rimwards Howondaland by at least a fortnight. He had Vetinari's tacit permission to attempt this, once the necessary diplomatic formalities had been hammered out with a country that boasted its bullion ships were the fastest on the Disc. Vetinari had said, with a straight face, they could offer to carry Ambassador van der Graaf's diplomatic bag back, as a courtesy, so his government received it a lot sooner. ("_And Harrapp, you might also want to do something about Klatchian pirates in the Circle Sea? The government of Klatch recognises they are a danger, and accepts that all seagoing nations have a right to self-defence if assailed. News of your successfully taking on a pirate ship or two is bound to filter back to Al-Gebra very quickly, especially if you let any survivors have a lifeboat and adequate supplies. Capital!"_) A long shakedown cruise and an opportunity for active service, as well as knocking the Boors' noses out of joint. A career sailor could not ask for anything more.

But for today, they'd heard the same rumours about alien invasion as anyone else, and were keeping station in the broad Ankh below the Ankh Bridge, watching hopefully for seventy-foot tall alien tripods wading down the river… Harrapp prided himself the _Thundercloud_ would give them one-hell of a fight if it came to that. He'd stake his Captaincy on it. Hopefully, he scanned the Hubwards. Still nothing, but early Octeday yet. Just a witch, by the look of it, on a broomstick, heading out widdershins accross the river._ Commander Vimes has promised to assist in an experiment. Can a witch on a bromstick successfully land on the deck of a moving ship, and if so in what weather and sailing conditions? If this works, then we can recruit a Fleet Air Arm to operate from ships. It would vastly improve my observational range. Maybe in time, special ships, broomstick carriers, with a complement of flyers? _

"Come on, Thundercloud!" he breathed. It was almost a lyric, an exultant song...**(8)**

* * *

**(1) **Having fun with references to sci-fi aliens…. And the thing with the petrol-soaked blanket and the tank's engine deck was in fact used in combat, in the Spanish Civil War in 1936 and on into WW2, as a low-tech way of killing a tank. It was taught to British Home Guards in 1940 and used as a desperation measure in street warfare. It would also be good for Daleks too…

**(2)** Having never heard of Rabbi Loew of Prague and his robotic creation, your author is ashamed to say he made this mistake when first encountering the D&D fraternity at school. Being informed his magic-user was being assailed by a golem, he had heard _Gollum_, and unwisely opted for combat, with the confident words "Smeagol, you are _fucked_!" wrong move. A new character had to be generated.

**(3) **This has actually happened in several zoos in India and China where captive tigers and lions were drugged and butchered by night.

**(4) **The Assassins' Guild prides itself on courtesy to the ethnic and cultural sensitivities of the client. This is why the Guild's lecturer in Agatean studies and ninjitsu technique, Miss Pretty Butterfly, was contracted to deliver a stern warning to the Yakuza/Triang criminal group who had tried to raid the Zoo. This took the form of stealth entry into a very well-guarded criminal society headquarters, to deliver an Agatean viewing plinth mounting the single severed head of the Triang leader who had attempted to resist arrest the previous night. In its mouth , clenched between the teeth, was an Assassins' Guild compliments slip. In Agatea, the Ninja and the Yakuza/Triangs have the same sort of outwardly friendly but continually watchful relationship as the Assassins and the Thieves do in Ankh-Morpork. Sometimes one side steps over an unwritten line and will require a rebuke of some sort to be served by the other. Koukouchou-san, when consulted as to the culturally appropriate friendly warning, bowed and said "Leave it to me, Downey-sama". She performed her duty to substantial loss of face by the Yazuka and the intense satisfaction of the Dark Council.

"How does it all operate, Koukouchou-san?" Downey asked her politely, as she poured a cup of sake for both.

"Around the W'ung district of Agatea, Downey-sama, the criminal clans are called the _Triangs_. They are drawn from the lowly and despised in society, those who are thought of as untouchables and outcasts. The leather-workers, the butchers, the undertakers, the clearers of waste and night-soil, and those who are looked down upon for not being of pure Agatean parentage, as I am sorry to say my people can be racist in their perceptions. Even Slakki or Bhangbhangducian blood is viewed as inferior. _Gwei-lo_, or white, ancestry is shocking.. Crime and violence are their way of gaining prestige and fighting back against a society that looks down upon them. Then there are the criminal families in my part of central and turnwise Agatea, to whom crime has always been a way of life. They cannot stand for political office as this is the preserve of the nobility. So the five families of the Yakuza run organised crime in my land as it is all that is left to them. They are the _Yamagushii-gumi, _the_ Sushiyummi-rengo, _the_ Inagoa-kai, t_he_ toarag-kai, _and the_ McSweeney-kai."_

"The McSweeney-kai?" Downey queried.

"A very old criminal family in my country, Downey-sama". she said, smoothly. "If both the Triang and the Yakuza are coming to Ankh-Morpork among immigrants from my land, then it remains to be seen how they will relate to the Thieves' Guild. They may seek friendly realtions with the local thieves. They may seek to fight and take over by force. They may attempt to take over by stealth, by joining the Guild and seeking advancement according to its structures. As Assassins, I counsel that we watch and observe and seek to deter them from encroaching on what is clearly ours. Or they will take, as they have no honour."

**(5)** See my story _**Bad Hair Day**_, in which the Watch acquires flying horses.

**(6) In the Canon:- **See _**"Night Watch" **_for the Glorious Revolution and Harrapp's brief part in it. Refer to _**Jingo **_for the Leshp war.

**(7) **for a definition of _agroohaha:_ see my short story _**Amateur Night**_, in which a lesson on Troll alternate lifestyles is given.

**(8) **Getting a bit Jeff Wayne here. I haven't yet been able to work "Forever Autumn" into the piece, though...


	30. Tripods and broomsticks

_**Slipping Between Worlds 30**_

_**Watching the preposterous piece of hokum. Anaconda, on TV as a I type and wondering how such a piece of rubbish came to be made. There's something about a truly bad horror movie...**_

Abdoullah Youseff-al-Tahksi regarded himself a very fortunate man. He was making a very good living doing something he had always loved and which had been in his family's blood even before his grand-father had emigrated from Klatch to Ankh-Morpork. He hardly even thought of himself as Klatchian these days, although he could speak the language. He happened to be just another working stiff from Morpork with a living to earn, and he had applied his creative imagination as to how he could get ahead of the competition in this city.

At first, it had been conventional: he'd invested the inheritance from his great-grandfather in a hansom cab and two horses, and had become just another cab driver operating in the city.

After six months, he had started to wonder why, although he was busy enough, he wasn't turning much of a profit. He looked at the overheads: licence to the Guild of Cabbies to enable him to operate as a licenced taxi driver. Arm and a leg. Servicing costs for the horses at Hobsons' Livery Stables. Another leg.

Mandatory vetinary fees from Doughnut Bloody Jimmy. Most of another arm plus a kidney.

Occasional fines to that fat son-of-a-promiscuous-female-camel Fred Colon.

And every time he was hung up in traffic jams with or without a fare cost him money, just standing there. OK then. He had a good long hard think, and a close look at the Guild of Cabbies' membership rules. _Ah. Pass me a towel. _

"_**4.1.2:- Annual licence fees shall be payable on any vehicle used for paid public transportation within the cities of Ankh and Morpork. A vehicle used for public transportation is defined as a closed or unenclosed seated wagon drawn by between one and four horses in which the passenger pays the driver…**_

_**4.1.5 No driver of a horse-drawn wagon as defined in .1.2 shall ply for hire without first having paid, in full, for an official Guild Licence.**_

_**6.15.1: The welfare of the draught horses will be ascertained, twice yearly, by a full inspection at Hobson's Livery Stable, to whom a fee will be payable**_

_**6.15.2: Their medical welfare will be tended to by Guild affiliate Dr James Folsom, of the Ridings, Ankh-Morpork, who is qualified to deal with all ailments of the horse. Again, Dr Folsom will charge according to his professional scale…**_

_He will too, _thought Youssef._ It's no accident he lives in upmarket Ankh, the grasping Istanzian pork-eater… and bloody Hobson does well off our backs, too…_

Then a light had gone on in his brain. Youssef had an idea. He turned it around in his head and found no fault with it. He checked it against the fine-print of the Terms and Conditions for Cabbies' Guild membership. He grinned.

And the next morning he sold his horses at Hobson's.

"Jacking it in, Joe?" Hobson inquired, counting out the dollars.

Yousef sighed. He spread his hands, fatalistically.

"Sometimes, Great Offler decrees that things are not to be. _Insh'Offler!"_

"Yeah, will of the Gods, and all that" agreed Hobson. "Sellin' the cab, as well? I could…"

"I already have a buyer. But thank you."

Youssef then struck a deal with his cousin, another Klatchian émigré.

"You think it's going to work?" the cousin asked, as they hitched the second camel to the cab.

"Won't know till we try" said Joe. He hopped onto the board.

"Let's take her for a spin."

The Cabbies' guild objected. It objected even more when Joe stopped paying his Guild dues. But as Lord Vetinari pointed out in petty sessions at the Palace, it all rather hinged on the wording of your own rulebook, did it not? You could only be a licenced cabbie if your cab was drawn by horses. You could only be liable for Guild fees, horse maintainence fees and vetinarary fees if your coach was drawn by horses. Indeed, there was nothing to prevent an unlicenced cab from operating if it were drawn by animals other than horses. Which you simply fdid not consider when you drew up your Guild charter. Therefore the defendant, Mr Abdoullah Joe le-Tahksi, is completely free to set up an unlicenced rival firm using camels for propulsion. And I understand mr Hobson is not set up to deal with camels, and Dr Folsom knows nothing of their medical needs nor welfare so cannot be expected to medicate to them. So you are free to operate, mr le-Tahksi, and good luck to you!

CamelCabs was a success right from the start: in full Klatchian dress, Joe bowed his customers into and out of he cab, they seeking the novelty of a different experience, he finding he could afford to pay slightly less than Guild rates.

And then the Leshp war happened, and he found it prudent to pull his cabs off the street. He was sent a copy of the Cabbies' Guild rules and regulations, and with a suspicious heart, looked up 4.1.2.

_**A vehicle used for public transportation is defined as a closed or unenclosed seated wagon drawn by between one and four horses **__**or other draft animal**__*** in which the passenger pays the driver…**_

_*** - see Appendix One for a full list of draft animals used around the Disc to pull public cabs or parallel conveyances. **_

Damn. They'd blocked the loopholes. It had to happen sooner or later… he conferred with his cousin, who agreed to buy out the business and make a go of operating it under Cabbies' Guild rules.

Joe then looked in the attic for something else his grandfather had bequeathed him.

Even using camels, continual traffic jams and Fred Colon's gouging for fines were still a drag on business. This would bypass them completely, as well as foxing the Guild again. In any case, camels, while hardy creatures requiring little servicing, still cost in the long run, as the only source of medical attention in the case of serious breakdown was up at the Zoo. And Miss Smith-Rhodes, while she was an absolute _djinni_ with animals, did not see any reason to discount the Zoo's specialist help when it came to writing an invoice.

But after unrolling the flying carpet and putting a "for hire" meter on it, business had _really _taken off… and he still wasn't a Guild member. He charged a premium to those who wanted to bypass traffic jams at ground level, Colon's boys in Traffic Control couldn't touch him, he now managed other Mokkos**(1)** with legacy carpets who worked for him, and he had a lucrative subcontract with Klatchian Carpetways, who ran long-distance flights between Al-Khali and Ankh-Morpork. He ran regular contract flights on to Quirm, Pseudopolis and Sto Lat. All he had to do was to remember the "no flying zones" in force over the Patrician's Palace, Ramkin Manor, Pseudopolis yard and one or two other places, and that there was such a thing as an Air Watch that enforced these, and he owned his own oasis. What more could a man want?

And on this Octeday, he was taking on one of his other contracts, the professionally interesting one with the _**Ankh-Morpork Times **_where he undertook to be on hand to take iconographer Otto Chriek up above the city. This was only to be expected on a day when no ground traffic could move because of the volume of people thronging the streets – the rest of his boys were really coining it in with what was usually the trade of the Cabbies' Guild.

Even though Otto, as a vampire, could fly under his own will, experiments had proven it impossible for him to take sharp unblurred iconographs from flight. What he needed, he said, was a stable platform to steady the tripod on, he had said. Further experimentation had proven Joe could offer this, and Otto had needed reassurance that he wouldn't fall off – _not for myself, you understand, but zer equipment is delicate und expensive. _

And a partnership had been born.

Together, they flew over the heads of the crowds on Edgeway Road that stretched down towards the Park and beyond. Otto assiduously took a series of panoramic pictures, completely heedless of the fact he was creating a panic below.

People see what they want to see.

And seeing a tripod fly by, a mere seventy feet above, they talked about what they'd seen and decided they saw the top of an alien war-machine whose three legs must surely extend down to ground level. Well they must, mustn't they, it stands to reason… And every flash of a salamander became the eruption of a fiendish and deadly death-ray of alien manufacture…

* * *

nd there was a knocking at the window of the isolation room at the Lady Sybil Hospital.

The Watch Igor, who had regained consciousness and was directing his own reconstruction, had insisted on mirrors being angled so that he could watch progress and make comment where necessary, belched gently.

"Thorry, heartburn. Touch of acid indigestion there. You _have_ resectioned the new stomach at the hiatus and pyloric sphincters? ".

Igorina counted to ten. There was nothing worse than another Igor as patient. They tended to lean forward and criticise.

The insistent knocking came again.

"What's out there?" one of the wizards quavered. He reached for his staff, ready to blast alien. His colleague just opened the window, An obvious witch ducked her head and flew in.

"hi, Igor" she said. "Feeling better"?

"Jutht a flesh wound, thank you, Olga!"

"Some flesh!" she said, appreciatively. She looked across at a wizard with levelled staff, and scowled.

"Oh, put it away, silly man!" she snarled. "You ought to know if a witch and a wizard have a magical duel, nobody wins and it just leads to a lot of un-necessary shapechanging and other thinly disguised sexual repression exploding outwards and damaging things. Men and women are meant to fancy each other and have sex, OK? We're modern magic-users and I simply don't have patience with all that _toska_, that _govno,_ that repressive social conditioning that mucked up the older generation. Next thing you know you're continually turning into gender-role based metaphors, and nothing gets done!"**(2)**

"I think I understood some of that." the wizard said, lowering his staff sheepishly.

Good!" said Olga. "Let me introduce myself. I am Watch constable Olga Romanoff, of the Air Police. I am also qualified witch. _This_ is a letter of credentials signed by the Tsar…_Patrician. _I am here to collect a certain thing and air-freight it across the City to the Zoo. Let me see it, please, and assess the degree of danger."

She imperiously passed over Vetinari's note, and strode forward to regard the Queen.

"_Shto va huy!" _she cursed. "And the moment this _sobacha _leaves the magic circle, she comes to life again, spitting acid and screaming for my blood, until I get her to the Zoo? _Polnyi pizdets!"_

"She's Zlobenian." Igor said from the bed. "Nobody can swear like a Zlobenian!"

"_poshyol ti', drochit!" _Olga replied, but she was smiling as she said it. Igor, unabashed, replied

"Listen, _kurva_." Igor said. "Less of the _ogrysat'sya,_ _byadischa,_ and more thinking! But I know you Zlobenians. I used to work for one! You swear in a most filthy way for ten minutes, then you calm down and start coming up with ideas."**(3)**

Olga grinned sheepishly, reached over and squeezed his hand, and then thought.

She grinned.

"Wizard. She is docile if she is inside the magic circle, da?"

"Yes…"

"Can the magic circle travel with her?" Olga continued, remorselessly.

"We'd have to tear the floor-covering up…"

"Is there a way your wizard-magic can paint it on the glass of her container, or something?"

The two wizards looked at Olga and then back at each other.

"In theory…"

"Nothing to stop us"

"Never been tried before!"

"We'd have to get the perspective just right…"

"Do it!" she commanded, the imperiousness of the noble Romanoff family condensed into the harmonics of her voice. "I will wait!"

An hour or so later, Olga checked that the thing was safely sleeping inside its jar, now with eldritch magickal symbols painted and etched on the outside. She also checked it was secure in the carrier. She did not want to drop _this_ over the city. And then made the simple mental adjustment that turbo-powered her broom to take the shortest and fastest route to the Zoo, and readying the red fireball that would be the sign she was about to land. She put up a prayer to the Gods of Zlobenia, and kicked up and through the window. She was committed.

* * *

**(1) **Originally "Moko", a Watch shorthand for "Morporkian of Klatchian ancestry" Young Moks saw it as a badge of pride.

**(2) **Olga is possibly referring to the occasion where Arch-chancellor Cutangle and Granny Weatherwax fought a magical duel in_**Equal Rites,**_which by strange coincidence reprised the lyrics of traditional English folk-song "The Two Magicians", in which a witch and a wizard et c et c…. Younger witches in a more permissive age might well be scornful, not realising that they are able to say openly what their elders only cared to hint at.

**(3) **With great apologies to any Russians who are reading. My moment of Tourettes is now over. If I got any of the swear words wrong, do I also need to apologise for that?


	31. Accidents happen Or Bodrozvachski zhalt

_**Slipping Between Worlds – 31**_

In the main throne-room, Leonard of Quirm had had an idea. Slipping past the sarcastic Mr Sendivoge of the Alchemist's Guild with a polite "hello", he found George Pony of the Artificers' Guild and conferred with him for a few moments. In a mood of rising excitement, Mr Pony diffidently approached the group around Vetinari and diffidently asked if he could borrow Ponder Stibbons for a few minutes to discuss an idea Leonard had just had, which he thought might speed proceedings and be set up inside an hour.

The Patrician nodded assent, and the excitement level grew even higher within a few minutes.

"I wonder what they have planned?" Vetinari said, indulgently. Equipment and tools were sent for from Leonard's rooms, with the great inventor returning laden with a basketful of miscellaneous items. Other things were scrounged from Palace stores. A device began to take shape.

"I say, Leonard, isn't that the Meccano set you devised? Now on sale in Crumleys to young boys of an engineering and civil engineering turn of mind?"

"My MEChanical Construction ANd spatial Organisation set for young engineers, certainly." Agreed Leonardo. "His lordship, once he realised it was being marketed as a toy, was kind enough to take steps to ensure the copyright was mine, as well as a percentage of sales profit. The revenue, apparently, pays for many things".

"Indeed" agreed Ponder, who suspected the Patrician ensured that every Leonard-devised device finding its way into general sale was patented, and a sales agreement entered into that more than covered the costs of the great inventor being a permanent guest at the Palace.

As Ponder worked, under Leonard's direction, he quietly enthused about the sheer pleasure of working with such beautifully designed basic components that he suspected could be built up into just about anything. In fact, once all this was over, he was going to see about buying in a few sets for the HEM, as some of these long metal girder pieces would be ideal for building the additional mainframe HEX had been asking for.

"Just put the next screw and bolt in through here, if you would, professor, and tighten with the spanner provided… excellent!" said Mr Pony.

"But I take my hat off to the real genius involved here." Leonard said. "Whoever had the brilliant idea to contract _MEChanical Construction ANd spatial Organisation set_ down to _**Meccano**_. I've always admired people who can do that. I've never had a knack for it, myself."

"And the large sheet of refractive-lens glass slots in…here. And the upper moveable arm rotates on its bearing allowing the upper lens array to receive the image. And because of your patent reflector, using the properties of this Dwarf-derived new metal _chromium, _the light of two large candles is channelled through a light-chimney providing sufficient to light the image from behind…"

The three nodded at each other.

"That patch of pure white wall over there, I think." said Mr Pony. Ponder placed the omniscope fragment under the frame where a mirror reflected what it saw upwards through the lens arrays. As Leonard lit the candles – the other two felt he should have the honour - the image in the omniscope suddenly leapt onto the wall, slightly blurry and upside down. It stopped all conversation in the room. Mr Pony made some adjustments to the lens array on the end of the upper arm. The picture shot into sharp focus. It appeared to show a witch on a broomstick who was being buffeted across the sky as if fighting a strong and unpredictable cross-wind.

In the enthralled silence. Vetinari said

"That is most impressive, gentlemen, but is there any possibility of your, ah, getting the image right-side up?"

Ponder reached into the body of the large metal framed box. The wall showed a giant hand grasping the picture and turning it through two angles as he righted the image.

A voice was heard, at a volume those furthest away had to strain to hear. It appeared to be swearing in Zlobenian.

"Er… I understand the speaker is more than mildly irritated and is expressing her displeasure in her native language." Vetinari said. "But I can foresee a time where what is said might well be of interest to us all in this room. Is there any possible way of increasing the volume, gentlemen?"

Leonardo smiled. "Happily, my Lord, I believe there is. Is Clerk Architrave available?"

Vetinari nodded. A hitherto disregarded ornamental cherub, one of two propping up a large baroque piece of wall ornamentation, turned its head and began to jerkily, unsteadily, climb down from the wall, flickering like a bad case of stop-motion photography. Members of the crowd gasped, as what looked like a large chubby baby with improbably curly hair and gold-leaf skin, worn back to the original alabaster in places, stepped down and waddled over to Leonard. It was naked, except for the obligatory swaddling-cloth modelled onto whatever the sculptor had found necessary to cover.

"There is no need for alarm, ladies and gentlemen." Leonard said, in a remarkably carrying calm voice. "Clerk Architrave is a Palace employee. He will not me mind my explaining to you that in his origins, he is the result of a remarkable breeding programme by a previous Patrician who wished to create indoor gargoyles. His physical substance was bequeathed to him by a parent whose genes ensured that he is made mainly of alabaster, otherwise known as calcite, a light rock famed for the ease with which it may be sculpted. Encased in the alabaster are crystals of quartz, and it is this that I wish to exploit, with Clerk Architrave's full permission."

The strange golden child looked up at Leonard, and jerkily nodded. Its eyes seemed to exude trust and acceptance. Leonard and Mr Pony assisted him up on the table nest to the optical device.

"Professor Stibbons, please run this length of copper wire from the omniscope to Clerk Architrave's right hand? Thank you. As you all no doubt know, quartz is a piezoelectric rock. Its crystals can be induced to resonate in accordance with a signal passed through it. The signal in this case is the voice of HEX, the University's thinking machine, relayed to us via the omniscope link. HEX, can you hear me?"

++I hear you, Leonard++

The voice came from the cherub's mouth, and was loud enough for the whole room to hear.

"Please tell me what we are currently witnessing on the omniscope. You would not be relaying it to Professor Stibbons if it was not important."

++We are observing Constable Romanoff of the Air Police as she attempts to convey the Queen of the Hive to the Zoo, for high-security confinement.++ It has awoken in its containing jar.++ It cannot escape from the jar, but it is angry and buffeting the jar in its carrying bag++ This is causing Constable Romanoff difficulties in maintaining level and true flight++

They watched, appalled, as the broomstick bounced and lurched across the sky.

"HEX" said Ponder, "Have you been able to find out more about the Queen? Has this phenomena ever happened before on the Disc?"

++The Librarian drew my attention to an account in Stripfettle's Believe-It-Or-Not-Grimoire.++ Thousands of years ago, in a country called Kahn-Li on the very rim of the Disc…..

But all eyes were on the broomstick, which made one final lurch and leapt several hundred feet up, as if the pilot had temporarily lost control. Then it briefly inverted, righted itself, and entered a screaming dive.

"Did she drop it?"

"No. We saw nothing fall." Vetinari insisted. He looked around. Vimes had closed his eyes as if in prayer. "And she appears to be in control again…"

"A blessing she's the only thing up there, by the look of it." somebody said.

But a distant speck on the omniscope was resolving itself, faster and faster, into a square, then a rectangle. A flying carpet, with two people on it, both intently looking down. The passenger was on the very edge of the carpet, angling a box on a tripod downwards.

A despairing and angry scream of _**Bodrozvachski**__**zhaltziet**__**!**_dopplered away from the broomstick pilot as the two aircraft flew too close to each other. It was answered by an alarmed voice shouting exactly the same words from the carpet. They didn't need to collide: the magical flux around a Klatchian flying carpet, which ensures, among other things, that the occupants do not fall off, is strong. There is also a magical flux surrounding a well-set up broomstick. Bring the two together and there will be a flash of octarine fire and a short-circuit capable of knocking the less powerful vehicle across the sky.

And as the stricken broomstick, magical fire blazing in its bristles, plummeted down towards the city, its pilot knew there was only one thing to do. She swung her leg over it, clasped Something close to her chest, and threw herself off it. The riderless broom plunged on towards New Ankh and destruction, and the pilot plummeted, seemingly to her doom. The occupants of the carpet watched in horror.

And then, over the city, her parachute opened.

++She still has the Queen++ Hex reported, dispassionately. ++She will come to Disc somewhere in the vicinity of Filigree Street, near to the intersection with Baker Street or Heroes Street. I regret I cannot predict…

But Vimes was already shouting orders.

"Get an All Persons out! All available units get to Short, Filigree and Baker to intercept her on landing! "

Carrot was already racing for the stairs to use the Palace clacks. On the way he picked up Constable Fidden, who carried the back-up semaphore flags. Sally von Humpeding followed.

Lord Downey was also quietly issuing instructions to young Assassins, who stood, and bowed to Vetinari, who nodded them to leave.

"I'm impressed." Leonard said, at length. "That was a most practical adaptation of my "falling like a sycamore seed" design. Does your machine record images for playback later? I must take notes!"

"Not just _now_, Leonard" said Ponder, urgently. "Take it from me, nobody's in the mood for a replay. Least of all, Commander Vimes"

* * *

Olga Romanoff felt the thing in the jar stir and wake. A moment's investigation showed why: the magical runes were beginning to rub off the glass. She cursed all wizards who didn't know to use indelible ink, and estimated she had five or six minutes before her ETA at the Zoo. Ample time at a reasonable speed: she could go faster and would if it were an emergency, but she'd heard that haste made mistakes. The thing was only in a flimsy canvas bag slung around her neck and nestling in her lap – she shuddered at the thought of the acid seeping out, or worse still, flooding – and she reflexively checked the ripcord to her parachute was still where she expected to find it.

And then it got angry and started to buffet the glass.

Olga scowled as the stick started to bounce, and looked down into two beady eyes full of hate and a blocky jaw that was frothing acid.

"You and I need a little chat, duchess." she said, sternly. "We are both a thousand feet up here. Kill me and you kill yourself too. Behave."

But it kept on thumping its full weight into the glass walls that imprisoned it. This had an inevitable knock-on effect on Olga's handling of the stick. Olga swore. She then remembered her witch-training in Lancre.

_Perhaps I can Borrow its head for a second, quieten it down from the inside? _

She considered this. But she was also piloting a broomstick in difficult conditions. What was it that Nanny Ogg had said, solemnly and as if it were a mantra of great importance?

_Never, ever, whistle while you're pissing. _Mrs Ogg had said. **(1)**

_And when you understand this you will understand one of the great secrets of witchcraft. I'm not sayin' it's the only one, mind, nor the most important. But piss and whistle at the same time – witches dunt do it, right? _

This had caused great speculation among the neophyte witches.

Annagramma Hawkin had of course dismissed it as the words of a habitually dirty-minded old woman who was now starting to show signs of senility. Petulia Gristle, the pig-witch, had said "errr." at great length, until challenged to come out with whatever pearl of wisdom had been thrown before her swine. Flushing, she had said that one of the old farmers had told her the best time to pick a pig for slaughter is when it's having a piss, miss. It can't focus on more than one thing at a time, and if it's taking pleasure in having a piddle, then it won't notice the knife getting nearer to its throat.

_And? _Annagramma had demanded. _And your point is, Petulia? _

"Well, maybe she's saying you can only do one thing at a time and sometimes you have to choose. But whatever you do, you put everything you've got into it, right?" Dimmity Hubbub had said, challenging Annagramma to argue further. Olga and Irena, two late entrants to the Craft who had been put in with a group of girls four years younger – Olga suspected to teach them a bit of humility – had stayed silent, noting that Tiffany, the quiet intense girl from out Rimwards of Lancre, was also keeping her silence.

And now, Olga was understanding a little bit more about whistling and pissing. She suspected she could pilot a suddenly temperamental broomstick, or seek to Borrow. But not both.

But a little bit of her mind triggered the mental switch that put the broom on autopilot. Then she focused. And went in.

_What is your problem! _she demanded. Olga sensed herself in the presence not of a newborn creature that could be reassured and lulled. She felt, rather, a fully-formed sentient mind.

_Govno, _she thought. _It's intelligent. _

_Problem? I have no problem. _The voice hissed back at her, serpent-sibilant. _I understand I have a destiny. _

_A destiny?_

_We were too soft with you mammals last time. We offered you an easy extinction surrounded by the trinkets and baubles you seem to desire. But you spurned us and in your impertinence you destroyed the Hive and all its children. I am one of only two survivors. _

_And the next time? _

_My children will come in a different and terrible form. We have mutated, mammal female. We will mutate again if necessary. _

_And we will destroy you again. We are adaptable too. _

Olga felt an unpleasant noise which she assumed was the creature laughing.

_Do you think I am the only one? There were other Hives. I embody the wisdom of my mothers. I have their memories. Long ago in your land of Khan'li, which was then a land of great mammalian intelligence and richness, we established a Hive. We were too successful. Today Khanli is a wasteland populated by primitives and Stone Age people. We learned that in future it will be best to farm you mammals so we have a guaranteed supply. In _**our**_ future, that is. _**You**_ have none. _

_But when you are dead, there is no threat! _Olga retorted. She felt the thing laugh again.

_There are seeds around the Disc waiting to be picked up. We can wait. How do you think we got from Khan'Li to this city? Your explorer Ponce da Quirm visited. He took several seeds thinking of them as curios. Then he died and they were forgotten. Until the conditions were right for one to flourish…_

Olga felt a lurch. She snapped back to her own mind to discover she was flying inverted and gaining height rapidly. The only thing that was keeping her on the broom was its own magical field. she had deliberately turned this up as far as it would go to preclude the possibility of anything falling out of her grip and plummeting to earth.

Hearing the thing laugh in her head and feeling it renewing its attack on the jar, she banked and twisted back into the horizontal plane and sight to regain a comfortable flying height. And the right direction for the Zoo: she had veered Rimwards and was now set to pass close to the Patrician's Palace. It would not do to lose the thing there. She set the nose slightly downwards and concentrated on whistling rather than pissing.

But another hazard was behind and below, in the blind spot directly underneath her…

"Just a few taken from over Sator Square und zer Broadvays, if you please, Joe. Zen ve can vrap up and go back to Gleam Street."

"Right you are, offendi" said Joe, cheerfully. He loved being ferry pilot to a press photographer. It added icing to the cake of a good job. He looked down over the city panorama and the packed crowds below. Many of them were looking back.

He didn't think to watch the sky around and above him. Air users were still thin on the ground in the city, and he reckoned the possibility of a mid-air collision of any sort was getting on for, ooh, a million-to-one. Thus he utterly failed to notice Olga's broomstick converging from directly above, on much the same flight-path, until he became aware of a shadow falling over him and growing larger by the second…

He heard a woman scream _**Bodrozvachski**__**zhaltziet**__**!**___as the two magical fields scraped across each other, giving the smell of burning tin and a sight-blackening octarine flash. Both craft leapt across the sky. He heard an answering yell of _**Bodrozvachski zhaltziet!**_ from Otto. _Both from the same part of the world, then. _thought Joe, as he levelled the carpet._ Shame they had to meet like this. _

Otto had enough presence of mind to take a series of photos of the broomstick as its pilot leapt off the burning stick and threw herself across the sky. He caught her parachute opening perfectly. He also caught the blazing stick as it screamed down towards Sator Square and the packed crowd. People saw it and were screaming to avoid it, to not be where it hit. But it veered off above their heads and, as if attracted by like calling to like, scraped the rooftops of Unseen University and then crashed into the Unreal Estate, the place where all uncontrollable rogue magic goes to expend itself.

He then directed Joe to circle over the rough area where he thought the parachutist was going to land. She appeared to be somehow steering her descent by preferentially pulling on one side of the ropes retaining the canopy, which tilted her inwards somewhat. As Otto took more pictures, he noticed that she was pulling towards the Guild of Assassins.

The crowd were watching her come down: fragments of shouts were coming up to Otto, and they did not appear to be welcoming her to the Disc.

_Another alien!_

_Evidently using some sort of sophisticated anti-gravity device…_

_Coming down just here by the look of it… we can grab him, give him something to keep him quiet…_

_Nah, hang the bastard, why wait? _

A squad of whistle-blowing Watchmen were trying to get to the scene, and even from this height Otto could recognise Captain Carrot, moving behind a wall of golems and trolls who were grouped as an arrowhead, pushing the crowd aside. As her trajectory became clearer, a group of black-clad Assassins were forcing their way out from the Guild gates. Assassins were not trained to perform crowd-control duties; their progress was therefore somewhat slower than that of the Watch, who were.

With one final kick at the air, Olga floated the last few feet to land among the Assassins, her canopy collapsing on top of them. A voice from inside the guild gates shouted _Jolly good! You've bagged her! Now bring the girl in, or she'll get killed! _

Olga felt herself being half-lifted, half-dragged, into the Guild, a circle of Assassins with suddenly very visible weapons closing behind her to deter the street people from following.

"Clacks Lord Downey at the Palace." the same brisk voice said. "Tell him _the eagle has landed_, or something. Vimes will want to know too, she's one of his gels. Speaking of which…"

Olga felt the parachute silk being lifted from her eyes.

"Glad we got this contraption in too." the voice said. "It looks is if it'd be bally expensive to make, and if that lot had got it, it'd be seventeen sets of silk bloomers and a wedding dress by tomorrow."

"Very effective, though" another Assassin said, thoughtfully. "When our roof sentry saw those two things collide, and we saw a body fall off, well, we thought it would just be splat time."

"Indeed" said the first voice.

Olga felt a familiar hammering and battering from the thing in the jar. It was still in the carrying case slung around her neck.

She focussed on the first speaker, a spare, slender woman in her early fifties with the look of an alert vulture. She was dressed all in black and projected a brisk businesslike air.

"_We've got to get this to the Zoo!" _Olga nearly screamed_. "It's important!"_

The woman patted her on the shoulder. Then she looked into the jar.

"Ugly little brute, isn't it? Never mind, you've come to the right people."

"Perhaps we could gas it, ma'am?" a male Assassin diffidently enquired. "Hydrogen cyanide does for most things."

"Most things **we** know, mr Bryant!" the woman said, crisply. "This little horror would probably thrive on it. We don't know yet that's the problem."

She raised her voice. It had schoolmistressly connotations to it.

"Senior Assassins, here, please! I want ideas. Chop, chop!"

A small knot of the Disc's feared and respected contract killers gathered around the woman. They were mainly male, and all were showing her complete respect. Olga was impressed.

"Now, see here, chaps" she said. "Lord Downey has sent word from the Palace that this young lady was in trouble and needed assistance. As the Dark Council Member who is in charge of the Guild in his absence, I have to say you reacted jolly promptly and pulled her in before she got lynched by the mob outside, and well done to you all! But the job's only half-done. Some of you have seen the rather nasty genie she's got in that jar, and we need to ensure she gets the job finished and gets the ugly evil little creature to the Zoo poste-haste. Preferably before it breaks free.

"We can't do it by road as it's chocca with the hoi-polloi. We don't have the facilities here to send her on by air…yes, Emmanuelle?"

"I believe one of ze girls in Tump House is from Klatch, _Maîtresse." _Emmanuelle-Marie Lapoignard les Deux-Épées said, politely. "She has a magic carpet. Although I understand she lost her nerve for flying it after Miss Band sent her to mount an aerial attack on Commander Vimes."

Olga remembered: she and Irena had tipped the poor girl off her magic carpet and into the Ramkin family dunnikin.**(2)** Seeing it from the inside had become something of a tradition for student Assassins vectored to approach Vimes as a field exercise.

"A good idea, but she's one of the students who accompanied Miss Band to the Palace" Joan said, regretfully. "And I believe only she can fly it, its's magically keyed to her biofield, or something. The School insisted on that, to prevent other kids pinching it and going joyriding."

"Er… Miss Sanderson-Reeves? There's always the Undercity." another Assassin suggested.

The Acting Guild-Mistress considered this.

"Damn good idea!" she said. "We can get a fair amount of the way underneath New Ankh, and we can clacks local friends to have transport waiting when we emerge. That'll get us past the mob in the street, alright!"

There was a commotion in the gateway. A messenger ran to the Guild Mistress.

"Captain Carrot and Sergeant Detritus of the Watch, ma'am".

"Let them in. We can brief them on what _we_ have decided to do." Joan said, decisively.

Carrot introduced himself to the vulture-woman with diffidence and courtesy. They shook hands, and he was allowed to sit in on the conference.

Carrot, who had witnessed the turbulent flight via the Omniscope, agreed that sending another air-messenger was out of the question. Underground was probably now the only option.

Assuring himself Olga was fit to proceed, he too took a look at the angry hissing thing in the jar.

"Whatever you do, you need to do it fast." he said. "This thing seems to be growing. I could be wrong, but if it grows enough to break its jar… "

"Damned if I'm having that!" Joan Sanderson-Reeves exclaimed, indignantly. "Not from some ghastly little reptile, and certainly not on _my_ watch as Guild Mistress!"

She thought for a moment.

"Go and see the butler." she directed an Assassin. "Get the largest icebox he's got. Fill it with ice. Freezing the wretched creature, if it's a reptile, should slow it down almost as well as a wizard's spell! Oh, and _you,_ go to the poisons' lab. You will requisition, in _my_ name, a carboy of potassium hydroxide and a drum of sodium hydroxide pellets. If this little madam tries to spit anything with pH one at me, I'm dratted well firing back with lots of lovely pH fourteen."

Carrot looked blank.

"Don't you Dwarfs do any chemistry, Captain? Wherever this thing came from, we know it thrives on strong acid. Therefore strong alkalis are going to be poison to it. A basic law of chemistry! It spits acid on _me_, I turn it into _soap_."

She rubbed her hands, gleefully. Then punched one fist into another. "Bring it _on_!" she exclaimed.

* * *

Back at the Palace, the watching City Council saw the broomstick plummet in an appalled silence.

HEX, speaking through the cherub**(3)**, broke the silence.

++She is now safe and guarded by the Assassins' Guild. ++I am afraid that because of my programming to respect the privacy of Guilds and individual citizens of this city, I may not follow through the Guild gates unless invited.++ I respect your negative shake of the head, Lord Downey.++ No doubt the Acting Guild-Mistress will keep you informed and you will share her news with the Council++.

"And her broomstick?" Vetinari coolly inquired.

++I tracked it to the Unreal Estate, where it impacted the ground and exploded.++ Some raw magic was released and reacted with the residual magic burning off the broom++ There was a large and spectacular explosion, but no damage save for several broken windows in the Thaumatalogical Park.++

There was silence in the room, but a relieved silence.

"So…the Assassins have now got this alien thing and it's their turn to run with the ball, so to speak?" Sam Vimes asked, a little grin twitching the corners of his mouth.

++The load Miss Romanoff carried was intact on landing and remains with her, yes++ agreed HEX. +It would now appear to be down to the Assassins' Guild to continue the process of transferring it to the Zoo++

"Where your Air Police rather spectacularly failed, Commander" said Mr Boggis of the Thieves' Guild.

Vimes glared at him.

"If it wasn't for that bloody Klatchian and the bloody Times going round in circles taking iconographs and not bloody well watching where they were going, she'd be home and dry now! First chance I get, I'm booking Mr Joe le sodding Taxi for dangerous flying and obstructing a Watchwoman in the pursuit of her duty. Oh, _and _criminal damage to Watch property, ie one broomstick!"

Lord Downey intervened.

"My Lord, it is well after the agreed time to reconvene session. Should we not be bringing our guests back for further questioning?"

Vetinari considered this.

"No. By all means send apologies to them for the unforeseen extra wait, but assure them we will get round to them as soon as we can. I'm sure Lieutenant Holtack in particular is having pleasant conversation over the after-lunch coffee and cheeseboard, and I would not like to interrupt that too soon. Miss van Kruger of the Assassins' Guild has also been briefed to answer all Mr Ruijterman's reasonable questions concerning Rimwards Howondaland, and I'm sure she is taking very careful note of all he is saying, in return, about his own _Sedeffrrrika. _

"Mr Hughes has also been found a congenial lunch companion, to prevent his feeling left out, and I am sure she is being as attentive as the others.

"We can welcome them back in due course, after my mind has been put at rest concerning the current emergency. Commander Vimes, you say once Captain Carrot realised what was going on, he instructed a Watchman to take over sending clacks messages, then from the roof of the Palace, he climbed down as far as he could and then jumped, trusting Constable Dorfl, who was standing underneath, to catch him? Then he apparently gathered a squad of golems and troll officers and forced a way through the crowd to seek to rescue Miss Romanoff? Most commendable!"

"It was an All Persons, sir." Vimes reminded him. "Watchman down and in trouble. The mood that mob's in outside, a woman landing on their heads from above is going to be another evil alien, isn't she? They'd have ripped her to pieces! And it also seems I owe Lord Downey a favour."

"Unofficial unsanctioned inhumation by amateurs, Commander. We had to warn them we don't put up with that!" Downey said.

"And besides, the thing she was carrying would have undoubtedly escaped." Downey added. "We can't have that. We know nothing about it, so how can we plan an inhumation strategy?"

"Indeed. And the state of the crowd?" asked Vetinari. Vimes answered.

"Largely good-humoured, sir, but jumpy. When that broomstick went down in flames it was clear evidence of another death-dealing alien weapon. The bang and the multi-coloured mushroom cloud that went up from the Unreal Estate only went to confirm that. But at least the crowd is getting no larger".

"And the multitude in Hide Park?"

"The same there, sir. Reports confirm they're alternatively being whipped up into a frenzy and laughing themselves back to sanity again, according to whoever's speaking."

"But showing no signs of dispersing?"

Not outside the front door here sir, no. But the numbers in Hide Park seem to be thinning out. People realising its lunchtime, perhaps, and nipping home for Octeday lunch."

Vetinari nodded at Vimes and steepled his fingers.

"I was really hoping to avoid escalating things like this." He said. "But clacks Spionkoep Barracks, please, Drumknott, and ask how ready the Llamedosian Regiment is to march. Also ask what their proposed strategy will be. Oh, and it's unwise to presume. Ask how much they know about the current situation."

The projection device was showing a scenic picture of the Quirm city centre, of the Tower overlooking the river Inseine and the Cathedral of Blind Io. Vetinari nodded to it.

"What do you call that?" he asked.

++A Screensaver, My Lord. ++something calming to look at when there is no active file displayed.++ I have others available if this is not to your liking…++

A variety of scenic pictures passed across the area of wall that doubled as a screen. The Ramtops in summer, a ski-ing chalet in Uberwald, a camel train in the Klatchian desert.

"Very picturesque" the Patrician said, "but I meant the machine itself. Leonard?"

Leonard of Quirm reddened slightly.

"Please, my Lord, two other gifted people collaborated in this design.I would not like to presume."

"Presume away!" said Ponder.

Leonard thought.

"well, my Lord, as this is a projecting machine that enables people to view material projected over their heads onto a handy white-painted wall, I think of it as…."

"Carry on, Leonard," Vetinari said, encouragingly.

"The Machine That Projects Over People's Heads And On To a Handy Screen."

"Thank you, Leonard" the Patrician said, sincerely. He was grateful for a little touch of normality in his day. Although sometimes he had to actively fish for reassurance that the Discworld would still be substantially the same tomorrow.

"I think we can bring our visitors back into this assembly now. Some things will be easier with the Machine That… with Hex on hand to help and advise."

* * *

**(1) **A tribute to Robert Anton Wilson and Robert Shea's immortal _**Illuminatus!**_ Trilogy, where "_**Never whistle while you're pissing**_" is a mantra understood and followed by the Wise and Crafty.

**(2) **See my story _**The Civilian Assistant**_, and yes I know it's not finished.

**(3) **As you will have gathered, a cherub is a sub-species of indoor gargoyle. These thrive on a diet of flies, spiders, and the occasional mouse or feral rat. They do however, require watering at intervals. They also appreciate light dusting and the occasional polish to their gilding.


	32. Back in court

_**Slipping Between Worlds – 32**_

In a private room some way away from the Palace throneroom, the three Fusiliers were unaware of the dramas playing themselves out around the City.

Two of those very capable-looking axe-wielding Dwarfs were guarding the door, their axes held easily at the high port, across their chests. Holtack valued his legs. He particularly appreciated the way they remained attached to his hips and offered him trouble-free mobility. Those axes looked _uncompromising,_ with a deeply curved blade on one side and either a long curved pick or a flat-headed hammer on the other. He thought there was a name for that sort of weapon, and a bit of his mind was trying to remember it.

On the window side, two of the black-cloaked humans he recognised as Dark Clerks were on guard, politely standing out of eavesdropping range but making their presence known all the same. The room itself made him think of a salon in the era of the Sun King: lots of ornate plasterwork and internal decoration, with cherubs supporting intricate frames modelled on the wall in dowel and plaster, all of which had been gilded or otherwise coloured to stand out from the basic boring white behind.

_Like the staterooms at Buck House, _he thought. _Seventeenth and eighteenth century baroque. Which translates as "bung another laurel wreath on the top, Frank, and you can never have too many cherubs playing drums and trumpets and doing other cherubic things." _Then again, the alternative is either Victorian High Gothic like the inside of Manchester Town Hall, or 1930's neo-fascist_ The State is mightier than you are, worm, so submit and learn to shout "Heil!" _brutalism. _Which is an architectural stage this country doesn't seem to have got to. Yet. _**(1)**

Three tables for two had been set out along the room, just far enough away from each other that it would be hard to eavesdrop. Holtack noted with some pleasure that Miss Wiggs was waiting for him. He looked behind her to note the girl who'd accompanied them in the wagon, Miss van Kruger, had been detailed to eat with Ruijterman. _Makes sense. She speaks the language and perhaps they'll both find it pleasant. _

And a third girl, also in the ubiquitous Assassin/Dark Clerk black, had been detailed to Hughes as a dining partner.

_Fair enough, then. I've already ordered them to hold nothing back and be open and candid about everything. Nice of our hosts to make this effort, though. _

"Jocasta." he said, looking forward to dining with her.

"Philip" she said in return, He courteously helped her to her seat and eased her chair under her, as good etiquette dictated. .

They shared a smile, then he looked at the drinks choice.

_Ah. Problems. There's a carafe of water. Remember the stuff in the cell last night? This looks cleaner, but judging by the smell of that river out there any water's likely to be playing host to a dozen different bugs. And the only other choice appears to be wine. Do I risk going back in front of a man as sharp as Vetinari after a glass or two of… __**Black NunTafelswein aus den Überwaldische Winzergennossenschaften (QbA)**_

_Does it say anything on the label about alcohol content?_

He turned the bottle in his hands, contemplating.

"Is the wine alright?" Jocasta asked, anxiously. "Uberwaldean white looked like a safe choice."

He grinned.

"I'd trust this rather than the water." He assured her.

"Oh yes, The water. Sergeant Colon reported that you were picky about the water in the cells. All three of you took one look and only used it for washing in, apparently. Lord Vetinari suggested you're from a place where you're used to the water having less dissolved…things… in it, and he took advice from Doctor Lawn. Partly to be sure you weren't carrying any diseases that could pass onto people here, and partly because he wants to keep you all healthy. The Doctor insisted the water on your tables be fit enough for _him _to drink. So It's been boiled and distilled, Phillip. It's as pure as it gets."

Holtack grinned. "I must thank this doctor when I see him." he said. A memory stirred. Hadn't the Martians, who trashed London in their improbable tripod war machines, eventually been beaten by Earth's native bacteria and viruses?

"You'd have thought they'd have taken air and plant samples first, before dropping in." he mused. _Given the state of the city streets, the smell and look of that river they'd been driven across, and above all the casual attitude of many of the inhabitants to basic personal hygiene, isn't it more likely __**we **__could pick up something from __**them? **_

"Come again?" Jocasta said, confused.

Holtack smiled.

_But she's clean and tidy and neatly presented. She's washed this morning and she's wearing clean clothes. There's even a hint of… perfume. So some of them are capable of basic personal admin. _

"I was thinking of a book I once read. It was turned into a concept album… sorry, into a musical play."

He explained the plot of H.G. Wells' _War of the Worlds _to Jocasta, who nodded in understanding.

"And in the end what killed the alien invaders were the little things. Like cold and flu bugs. Neat ironic twist!" she said. "But people out there are prepared to swear blind they're actually_ seeing_ those tripods, Philip. It's a funny coincidence!"

"People see what they expect to see?" Holtack suggested. "And by all accounts there are a lot of frightened suggestible people out there."

Jocasta smiled and poured two glasses of wine.

"You really should try this!" she said. "It's nothing special, just a table wine. Senior students at the Guild were allowed a glass each at High Dinners."

Holtack sighed. He'd been trained to resist interrogations that involved kicking, beating, psychological pressure and general nastiness. He had a feeling that he was wide open to the approach of a sympathetic pretty girl who insisted on getting him a decent dinner and refilling his wine-glass.

_If and when I get back_ he resolved, _I am going to suggest officer cadets are trained to withstand this sort of interrogation too. Thoroughly and extensively. Generations of British Army officers as yet unborn will thank me. _

He sipped the wine, and looked down the room reflectively.

"Whos's the girl who's working on Hughes?" he asked.

"Working on him indeed!" Jocasta laughed. "She's Sharon Higgins. Dark Clerk. Works for the Palace. But a Guild graduate, like me. Working on him." She snorted. "Lord Vetinari insisted your two men were both given hostesses over lunch to ensure their immediate needs were being attended to, Philip! " Their eyes locked over the table, Jocasta's showing that worried uncertainty that had endeared her to him, but also amusement: Holtack was trying not to look sceptical. "Oh, they might report back out of a sense of duty afterwards, of course. But don't forget this is as interesting for them as it might be for me!"

"Only _might_?"

"OK then, I'm not disguising that I find you very personally interesting and this isn't an onerous contract!" she said. Then her eyes and face were all encouragement again. "Now tell me more about this War of the Worlds thing."

As the food arrived – quite a nice little pâté starter – he gradually gave in. He found himself explaining to Jocasta that the book, _**The War of the Worlds**_, had been adapted as a radio play and broadcast on Halloween Eve in 1938.

_What's radio?_ It's a method of… taking sound, you know, voices and music, and transmitting it remotely so that a receiving device set to the correct station on the dial can pick up the signal and turn it back to voices and music again… it's still there now, even though it's been largely superceded by television – just think of that as radio with pictures - it's used for entertainment, education and transmitting government messages in case of emergency.

"And you've got a festival called All Fallows Eve, where strange things absolutely refuse to happen, nothing out of the ordinary goes on, zombies stay in their coffins and witches aren't allowed to go out? I see…"

"And people listened to this play, and it was so good they believed it was actually happening?" Jocasta said, interested. "And they panicked and went out into the streets by the _thousand?_ And every least little thing that happened was interpreted as being down to the aliens? Oh my goodness…"

"Well, the thing about radio is that there aren't any pictures." Holtack explained. "Which makes it ten times more effective than television, as your own imagination creates the pictures to go with the broadcast."

Jocasta was looking at him with both eyes open.

"It's called mass hysteria." he said, cheerfully. "And the _really_ strange thing was, the play was updated thirty years later and played to exactly the same part of the U.S.A. as had heard it in 1938. You'd think they'd have worked it out by then, but no, there was a second mass panic in 1968. Not nearly as bad as the first one in 1938, but still involved hundreds of thousands." **(2)**

"Philip" she said, slowly, "I think the Patrician might need to know this."

"And I know you'll be very carefully debriefed afterwards as to what I said." sighed Holtack. "So do you mind awfully if I _don't _talk about how it was all worked out and got back to normal afterwards? I have a feeling I might need a bargaining card."

She nodded, sympathetically, and took his hand.

"I rather think you will, Philip. You _have_ been told what the sentence is for being caught with a _gonne_ inside the city limits?"

She reminded him.

He winced.

"Ouch." he said. "Sometimes it's just not your day, is it?"

"It might not be so bad!" Jocasta said, attacking her steak. "They say Mr Trooper is a very good hangman and people never suffer unduly."

He looked into her eyes. Was there a hint of testing, of amusement, there?

"Let's see," he sighed. "They say these things come in threes. In the last twenty-four hours I've been shot at and blown up and survived both. Now can I be surprised that I could be hanged? Ah well…"

He spread his hands submissively and then re-addressed his lunch.

"Good steak, though".

She laughed. It was an appreciative, sunny, laugh.

"A word of advice, though. Lord Vetinari may be a _tyrant_ and an _autocrat_, but he's a sane and very intelligent one. He doesn't believe in un-necessary death if there are other ways around it. You know he keeps scorpion and snake pits under the Palace and a fully functioning torture chamber? I suspect that's out of a sense of tradition, because when you ask around, nobody can recall the last time he actually _used_ them on anyone. Apparently the last person to end up in the scorpion pits was Vetinari himself, when he was briefly deposed quite a few years ago."3**(3)**

"And he got out alive? So he's immune to poison?" Holtack asked. She smiled.

"From what we heard at the Guild, it was more that he'd trained them to recognise the Boss. And apparently all the rats work for him. Well, the _intelligent_ ones, anyway. You know the last Palace torturer put in his resignation because it was so bloody _boring_ here these days, excuse his Klatchian? He's working for the Countess Margolotta in Überwald now, apparently. The _polizei_ down there still believe in old-fashioned interrogation methods."

"Ah. The Gestapo."

She looked blank. Holtack assembled the German syllables.

"_GeheimesStaatsPolizei. _Special State Police."

She wrinkled in distaste.

"Yes. Lady T'Malia, our Political Expediency teacher, said that even in this day and age, every country has something similar. The model is the old Omnian Exquisition. You know, the three degrees of physical persusasion. You soften somebody up by showing them the tools and explaining what they're for and what they do. Then you send them away to think about it a little bit. Let imagination and uncertainty do the work. If they're still stubborn, you recall them and repeat the guided tour of the dungeon. Only this time you ratchet up the pressure by making them watch the tools being used on others. Um".

"The second degree." Holtack said, thoughtfully. He recalled the rumours about a certain police station, graced with the title _Detention and Interrogation Centre_, in Northern Ireland. About how IRA liftees, when you whispered the name in their ears, went quiet and thoughtful with fear. One man had wet himself, and another had cracked there and then in the back of the snatch landrover, spilling out names and times and dates.

_Our hands are not entirely clean, either, _he reflected.

"And then the Third Degree happens. Ugh."

"Ugh indeed!" he agreed.

"We're taught about the various security police forces and secret policemen operating around the Disc." she said. "Every advanced country has them. How to recognise them, how to evade them, who the key people are – the Guild have taken out contracts before now – but I really don't know, to be honest, how I'd stand up to interrogation."

"Doesn't the Guild teach that?" Holtack asked, surprised. "That does sound like a gap in your skills training."

She raised an eyebrow. "What… you mean they _deliberately_ put you through a no-holds-barred interrogation, to see if you can take it? That's barbaric, Phillip!"

"I'd be inclined to agree, but at least you get to know how much pain and mind-fu… mind-_games_ – you can take when it comes to the crunch." He said. "You can't learn that in a classroom, and when you've been wised up to the sort of games they can play, everything that's happened to me over the last day or so has been like a stroll in the park. It does help that's there's no pressing reason for me to with-hold anything. As far as I'm concerned, the more you know, the more likely it is that we can get back home again. There's no reason for me _not_ to tell you everything, you know?"

Holtack talked to her about his training in escape, evasion and resisting interrogation. Her eyes widened.

"They do _that_ to you?"

"Among other things, yes. You know, Jocasta, I'm really surprised you Assassins don't do anything similar?"

"Well, the majority of our trainees are school-children under eighteen. There _is _such a thing as a duty of care. You know? We do warn the parents that the training can get a bit robustly physical at times, but if it ever got to _that_ degree of robustly physical, we'd be waist-deep in complaints. Besides, while some of the older ones of seventeen and eighteen might be able to stand torture, I don't want to do it to fourteen and fifteen and sixteen year olds. And that's the other thing. Who would _run _such a course and lay on the beatings and the abuse and the bad treatment? Then you get into the whole area of girl pupils being molested and mistreated by adult men, and I'm not even going to _go_ there!" She sounded indignant.

"I can see the point. It would be a non-starter in a school setting, yes. But we both know boarding school is almost as good as a continual low-level work-over from skilled torturers, anyway."

She giggled.

"Isn't it! Maybe a course module in withstanding interrogation might work for post-graduate students and adult entrants." she mused. "I _will_ have to report back to Lord Downey about this conversation."

"Report away, then." He shrugged. "Nothing to hide and everything's out in the table. If I'm asked, that is".

Palace servants took the main course plates away and replaced them with some very nice stodgy chocolate confections. Holtack wondered if the purpose of being fed on a lot of stodgy carbohydrates was to get him sleepy and droopy by three o'clock and softened up for some killer questions when his guard was down. He ate sparingly. Jocasta reddened slightly as she fumbled words together into a difficult question.

"Always assuming Professor Stibbons can't get you back home again." she said. "Is there anyone you'll… you know… _miss_?"

She tried to look him directly in the eye as she said this. He sighed.

"By all accounts we're already dead." he said, "So how the boffin's going to reconcile _that_ one, I don't know. But there are my parents. My sister. Definitely my sister. A few old friends. The usual assortment of aunts and uncles. That's about it, really."

"Nobody else?" Jocasta inquired. Holtack had the feeling she was probing. He grinned. There really hadn't been a steady girlfriend since Carole. And that had been over a year ago. He'd just been too busy settling into a career. Women would just have got in the way.

"Nobody else. No." he said. And, my dear Miss Wiggs, yourself?"

"Mt father's a licenced Assassin. Semi-retired now, ever since he went for Commandeer Vimes, and ended up in hospital with a broken leg. So are two of my brothers. It's the family trade. And if by _nobody else_ you mean a _somebody else_, then I have to say in all honesty there is a _somebody_, yes."

"Ah" he said, thinking _She's pretty. She's bright. She's personable. Of course there'll be somebody. Idiot to think otherwise, really. _

"But my _somebody else_ – well, I love them dearly, things are fantastic when we're together, but they're an Assassin too. That doesn't exactly make for longevity." she said, thinking of Alice(**4)**. "But it's open-ended. We're both free to see other people." She thought of Alice's other relationships, with the thief Stephanie Gibbett and the dark exotic circus performer Dolores.**(5)** Jocasta felt jealous of neither. In fact, she'd met and liked them both. "Some of us try not to form exclusive relationships. My…lover… does hint I should try other people. Maybe I should."

"And how do _you_ feel about it?" he inquired.

Jocasta grinned.

"I _like_ unconventional!" she said. _Since Alice seduced me – no, that's not right, I __**wanted**__ her to seduce me, and once I'd left School, she did – there hasn't really been a box marked "conventional" to tick, not any more. Besides, when boys know you're an Assassin they run a mile. That only leaves other Assassins. And most of them are so conventionally dull and boring. Apart from Alice. Being with her is never dull! But I don't think I ever claimed to be 100% gay. I might well be sitting with the proof of that right now…_

"And speaking of unconventional, Philip, if the concept of _Angels_ is ever raised in front of you this afternoon, listen very carefully and keep your wits about you."

She would not be drawn further on angels. Holtack put the matter aside, reflecting that this world's Alice Band had also made cryptic reference to angels, and they conversed on various topics into the cheeseboard and coffee.

"We should have been invited back into the throne-room by now!" Jocasta remarked. "I wonder what the delay is?"

Holtack indicated the growing crowd-noise outside. It had harmonics of unrest and dissatisfaction.

"Those people have got a City to run. It sounds like I'm not the only problem they've got at the moment".

Even as he spoke the crowd-noise gathered in volume and intensity with an overtone of screaming: several screams were distinguishable above the rest. There was the suspicion of a noise, like that made by a vibrating bow-string, or a power-chord played by Ritchie Blackmore, dopplering off into the distance. They heard a distant explosion, and the windows rattled.

"I wonder what that was?" he said. "I'm pretty sure we didn't bring any hand-grenades or demolition charges with us, so it must be something domestic."

"I'll try to find out" Jocasta said, and left the table. Elsewhere, the other two lady Assassins looked equally worried. The three of them went off to confer, and Sharon Higgins was despatched to find out.

Holtack poured another coffee. He felt he was going to need it.

* * *

Arch-chancellor Ridcully whacked his staff into the opposite palm in sheer frustration. He'd been invited to the City Council meeting to discuss the alien problem, but the sheer press of people thronging into Sator Square had made it impossible to get there by foot. And the University's only broomstick pilot, Ponder Stibbons, was already over there representing UU as best he could.

It looked as if he were needed here, anyway. Ridcully and several Faculty members were standing just inside the Great Gate, amongst the knot of club-armed Bledlows who were acting as a deterrent to the crowd. About twenty yards of roughly crescent-shaped empty ground separated wizards and street demonstrators. For now, none of them cared to get any closer, which suited him just fine.

_At least Henry isn't here, _Ridcully thought, thinking of the old Dean who had defected to another competing university. _There'd be a sea of bodies as far as the Cham by now. And a situation like this calls for careful management and absolutely no blasting. Well, not till they storm the Gates, anyway. _

There was a sudden cry of horror from the crowd, and much pointing upwards. Fingers were following the progress of something across the sky. As an almost-musical note, like an overstressed violin string, Dopplered off over their heads, Ridcully tasted tin in his mouth.

He had just said the first syllable of "What's Happenin'?" when the mushroom cloud blossomed upwards from the direction of the Unreal Estate, coloured in lurid green and red. As one wizard, they turned to look.

"Ideas, please?" Ridcully said, with deceptive mildness.

"The broomstick collided with the magical carpet, Arch-chancellor. A million to one chance in our airspace. If you look, the pilot's coming down over _there…" _Recent Runes indicated the white blossom in the air, a human figure dangling from it.

"And the explosion was caused by a damaged broomstick, which can be viewed as a bundle of random out-of-control spells, crashing into the Unreal Estate. Interesting it should have been drawn there."

"Hope that damn' girl was taught by Esmerelda." Ridcully remarked. "That's the only way she'll stop the crowd rippin' her apart. Unless the Watch get to her first!"

Ridcully dragged his eyes away from the descending witch as she drifted towards a suddenly near-silent and intent crowd._ Nothing we can do there. Outside our control. _

"And the magic carpet?"

"Appeared to still be capable of flight. It turned and ran off Rimwards-by-turnwise. Looked like that vampire iconographer who works for the _**Times**_. Their offices are over that way, in Gleam Street."

Ridcully nodded. But he was facing a new threat. A block of intent and serious people were stepping forwards through the crowd. Their heads were shaved and each had a large red star painted on their forehead.

"I do not like the look of this, you men!" Ridcully said to the Faculty. "Can't afford to have this catchin' on. Set staffs to _croak_, if you please."

"Stand aside, old man" commanded the Red Star leader, fising his gaze on a point somewhere around Ridcully's left ear. . "This is the end of magic on this Disc. We are commanded by the Star People to burn down your university and destroy its books!"

"No." Ridcully said, flatly, and levelled his staff. The Red Star laughed.

"It is as last time. Your magic has failed you. The Star People have arrived to lead us and set us free!"

Ridcully shook his head. There was no accountin' for the stupidity of some people.

"Open fire, men!"

There was a series of actinic flashes and crackling horizontal bolts of ice-blue fire.

"Remember – only the ones wearin' red stars!"

One by one, muted shrieks petered out into a series of confused "_Ribbit"_'s.

Ridcully nodded at the Bledlows. "Can you be so kind, Mr Nobbs? Get 'em to the pond where they'll be safe and they can _think_ about things. If Chef has any old meat, leave a few pieces out where they'll generate flies for our houseguests here. Nobody can say we aren't hospitable! "

Every toad and frog had a muted red star on its brow. It was a neat final touch. And the rest of the crowd watched and noted the Wizards had ample power, regardless of what the red star loonies had assured them. One or two uncommitted people at the fringes sensed it might be time to discreetly slip home before other crowd-control measures were imposed.

* * *

Eventually, the three soldiers were re-admitted to the throneroom for a second session of questions and answers. They found things had changed slightly in their absence. Holtack looked up at the picture being reflected on the wall, and then down to a recognisable overhead projector, and nodded.

_What are they going to use that for? _he wondered. _And that's quite a tasteless cherub there. Quite stupendously so, like the inside of a Restoration church or a Victorian theatre. But it has wires leading off it…_

Vetinari was busy up front with paperwork that was arriving in a constant stream. Every so often, a Watchman or one of the Men and Women in Black would leave the room, or arrive with a note for either Vimes or Downey. The senior clerk Drumknott entered with another bundle of letters and notes which he left on the tabletop near his master. Vetinari was diligently reading through them, with no apparent reaction, pencilling notes in the margins, or occasionally having a whispered discussion with Drumknott.

However, he noted the return of the three soldiers with a nod.

"We will be with you again directly, Lieutenant. I just have a few diplomatic messages to attend to. In the meantime, the view on the omniscope is that from the top balustrade of this Palace, looking out over the Cham towards Sator Square. It perhaps shows you the magnitude of another current problem I have to deal with."

Ponder had asked if there were any reason to stop at _one_ gargoyle. Vetinari, seeing potential for a new application, had given instructions for an exterior gargoyle to come to the window of the throne room, whereupon the free end of a copper wire had been attached to its ear and it had been given instructions to climb as high as it could and keep its eyes open, as well as acting as a relay to observers on the roof who were watching the crowd situation. What it saw was now what the omniscope saw and was projecting onto the wall.

Holtack guessed at at least a hundred thousand people, possibly many more. The aerial view looked positively intimidating.

_How many Watchmen does Vimes command? _he wondered._ Even allowing for reservists and part-timers, no more than three hundred? OK, so there are other agencies they can call on for law enforcement, like the military and the Assassins, but from what I've seen, I don't think they co-operate too closely. At the moment that mob looks fairly passive and good-humoured, but it only takes a spark or a few idiots. I'd be very worried if I were sitting where Vetinari is. _

He tried to look beyond the crowd. _Was that a long fairly wide road on the edge of the scene there? The crowd peters out and it's fairly clear. And the look of that roofscape in the bottom right suggests a parallel road over there… but I'd need a city map and some local knowledge to make sense of it and come up with a plan…_

He knew the essential basics of dispersing a crowd, either by persuasion or by intelligently applied force.

_First get intelligence. Talk to community representatives, if any are available and find out why they've gathered. Negotiate with them. Make a few minor concessions if you have to and have the authority to. If it all possible get advance notice of where there's going to be a crowd gathering and deploy strength and barriers to prevent them getting to anywhere important, like commercial districts or government offices. Maybe let them have a few of their objectives, especially if the Press are watching with cameras, so they see disciplined well-behaved soldiers. The demonstrators get to go home happy if they feel they've made their point and any damage to persons or property is minimal. Otherwise, deploy your manpower intelligently and competently to channel them to where you want them to go. Always ensure their route of retreat is clear as an encouragement to them that they can always go home peaceably. And if it needs force…._

He sighed. Overall direction for containing riots and street gatherings had always rested with officers of higher rank than his. He had merely played his part in whatever section he had been allocated, and he'd trusted Sergeant Williams implicitly, as a vastly more experienced man in these matters. He wondered where Williams had gone to ground, and tried to prevent a grin forming as he remembered his guesses of last night.

_He was tracked as far as a Welsh… Llamedosian…. pub. Where he disappeared. The best case scenario – Williams was unmarried – was that some Blodwyn or Gwladys has taken a shine to him and he's still enjoying a late lie-in in a warm bed. But there's a Welsh… Llamedosian… regiment just up the road that uses that pub. If no Blodwyns were available he'd have made friends. To an old Sergeant that's like a new posting…_

Which only left Fusilier Williams and Powell. But hang on, there was still that old lady and the trolley to run to ground. And her flaming cat. _And hadn't the boffin said something about a hitherto un-noticed extra person? Who else was near enough to the bomb when it went off? _A clammy premonition made Holtack's skin crawl. He suspected he was not going to like the answer._ I hope it was another Fusilier. Because that only leaves…_

"Lieutenant Holtack? You appear troubled." Vetinari said, genially. "I trust you had a good lunch?"

"Sir, it could not have been better. I thank you for your consideration". he said, truthfully. "But I may need to warn you about a disturbing possibility connected with our arrival here. I was not trying to with-hold vital information, but something Professor Stibbons said earlier has only just made sense to me. I believe you need to be aware of it."

"Worse than, for instance, a most dangerous alien life form which we know to be at large in this city and which is not yet in absolutely secure confinement? "Vetinari asked. "Oh, this is totally independent of you and your command, Lieutenant, and I am absolutely assured you did not bring it here. But it has the potential to cause this city great damage and while we have it in _temporarily_ confinement, we have not yet brought it to its place of _permanent_ incarceration. I may have to order it destroyed so as to be on the safe side. But we do not know yet what is lethal to it, as it is totally beyond our biological comprehension. So it has to remain alive, in order to be studied, so as to devise a method of killing it. Most unsatisfactory."

Vetinari frowned.

"And then we have the vexing problem of the city having come out onto the streets, agog to hear and see more of the alien menace. Although you were only incidentally responsible for that. Which reminds me, Drumknott. Has Mr de Worde been advised I require a word with him? No great rush, naturally."

Assured that the Times editor had been summoned, Vetinari went on.

"Is your new information potentially City-destroying, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir. Having been offered a comparison point, I would grade it as possibly city-vexatious. But certainly something Commander Vimes needs to know if his watchmen are poised to make arrests. I would not want a dead policeman on my conscience."

Vimes leant forward, and scowled pugnaciously. "Cough it up, boy. What is it?"

"Professor Stibbons made reference to a seventh person having crossed with us. _Previously overlooked, _I believe his words were?"

Holtack looked over to Stibbons, who nodded.

"Sir, let me remind you that prior to the bomb exploding, we were being shot at by a concealed sniper. Who was near enough to the epicentre of the explosion to be caught up in its effects. I hope I'm wrong, but now the professor talks about an additional person having crossed…. Sir, it is my duty to inform you there may be another _gonne_-user at large in your city. One who most definitely is _not_ under my command. I believe I could persuade the three men under my command, who have evaded capture, to turn themselves in. This fourth is dangerous. He will be a Provisional IRA terrorist with a _gonne_ and ammunition available, who will be lost, alone and desperate, and who will seek to resist arrest by all means up to and including the use of his _gonne._ "

Vetinari remained carefully expressionless. Vimes looked thunderous.

"Let me introduce you to HEX" Vetinari said. "HEX, you have been listening to the conversation throughout. Perhaps you would like to introduce yourself?"

++Good afternoon, Philip++ I am HEX++ My function is to correlate data, make calculations, and come up with answers++ Ask me any question you like and I will seek an answer. ++

The voice was coming out of the mouth of the ornamental cherub. But something about it suggested HAL from _2001_, Holly from _Red Dwarf,_ and perhaps Eddie, the Shipboard Computer in _the Hitch-Hiker's Guide_. The memory of Holly's first encounter with Dave Lister surfaced unbidden. Holtack could not resist it.

"HEX, will Manchester United ever win the English Football League again?"** (6)**

_Ought to be good for a winning bet - if I get back. _

++Yes.++ said HEX. No other information was offered.

Holtack looked to Ponder.

"I think you'll find that was a correct and complete answer to your question, Lieutenant." Ponder Stibbons said. Holtack nodded.

"HEX, I'll clarify. In which season will Manchester United next win the English league title?"

++I can contact archive records on Roundworld and discover these answers++ But as it relates to a date which is quite a long time ahead in your subjective future , Lieutenant, I am afraid I cannot pass that information on to you as it would cause a temporal paradox.++

"And if I were to ask for the winners of the Grand National, Derby and Cheltenham Gold Cup in 1986, I would get much the same answer?"

There was a ripple of apreciative laughter as people in the room saw what Holtack was getting at.

++Regrettably, yes. I could foresee your returning to the Roundworld with this information would cause solvency problems for at least one chain of bookmakers. This is neither your destiny nor that of William Hill and sons, Turf Accountants."

"You can see my destiny?"

++I can see a range of destinies for you++ While I cannot speak of them, I can reveal that time is not linear, it is fan-shaped. ++ I cannot, however, see a future where you return to the Roundworld full of useful information concerning the winners of sporting events yet in that planet's future.++

_Damn. _

"But we return?"

++In a sub-infinity of possible futures, yes++ In another sub-infinity, your life has already been terminated and you never arrived here++ In yet another sub-infinity of the possible futures, you give up trying and reconcile yourself to a life on this world.++ Everything you can imagine is happening somewhere.++

"HEX, this is all very interesting. As time presses, can you proceed to the agreed demonstration, for the benefit of all present? Please confirm the names, occupations and the incidental details concerning those people who crossed here from Roundworld." Vetinari requested.

++There are eight.++ There is firstly the mysterious Mrs Tachyon, believed to originate from the town of Blackbury in Lancashire, England.++

A map of Earth was projected up onto the wall where the crowd scene had been. In a series of hops and leaps, it focused down into Europe and the British Isles grew larger and more prominent. A red dot glowed in the centre-west of the right hand landmass. Holtack guessed it was somewhere north of Blackburn.

++We know little else about her++ Her temporal line is already twisted and hard to disentangle. ++We do know the trolley she moves with was born in this city as a drone unit of the original Hive.++ It is now the last living thing from that Hive.++ minimal data exists to reconcile the paradox of how a confused elderly Roundworld woman was brought together with a lifeform from this planet++Still computing.++She travels with a feline life form which confused my sensors.++

Holtack then saw his own face appear on screen.

++Philip Owen Holtack++ all data concurs with that which he has volunteered except for place of birth++ In written and verbal depositions to the Watch and this court he gave his birth town as Rhosllanyrchrugog, which is here, near the city of Wrexham++

The focus moved to Wales, and a red spot lit up in the top right-hand corner.

++His actual place of birth is in fact the village of Trefor, which is here, near Llangollen++

Hex lit up a new red light, near to the English border.

Vetinari raised an eyebrow.

"Please explain the inconsistency, Lieutenant"

Holtack sighed. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

"Credit me with a sense of humour, sir. I wanted to watch Commander Vimes and his men trying to pronounce "Rhosllanyrchrugog". It seemed like more fun than "Trefor". "

He tried not to look at Vimes' face.

"Ah yes. The celebrated Llamedosian – _Welsh _- sense of humour. Proceed. " said Vetinari.

HEX summarised the known facts about Holtack, using his service record and other sources for corroboration. Then the supercomputer proceeded through Sergeant Williams. Ruijterman, and Fusiliers Williams and Powell.

And then

++Francis Gerard McFoley++ Age thirty-one++ Of the Bogside Brigade of the Provisional Irish Republican Army++ Presumed dead in the bomb-blast which masked the others arriving in this town++ He is carrying an Armalite rifle and an unknown number of rounds.++ The Irish Republican Army lamented the loss of this rifle and ammunition more so than they did their member++Their logic was that new Provo recruits are easy to come by, but a good Armalite, once lost, is difficult to replace.++

"Mc Foley!" Holtack said. The man was on the Most Wanted list. "HEX, tell Commander Vimes what he's dealing with here."

++Mr McFoley was implicated in several killings, including that of a shop owner he was robbing++ He is in many ways a common criminal, a robber, a thief, a mugger, a violent offender++ But his IRA membership grants immunity as people did not dare stand against him in court for fear of reprisals.++ He has been in prison and will kill rather than go back there.++ He is undoubtedly dangerous++

"And he's on my bloody patch!" Vimes grated. "With a _gonne_!"

"I begin to perceive." Vetinari said. "that we need to take action on this as well as other issues. I move, if nobody objects, to making a decision as to the disposition of our three guests here. I will briefly confer with Mr Slant as to the legal aspects of the situation. We will reconvene and I will give verdicts in ten minutes. Any immediate apeals may be briefly disposed of. Thank you."

* * *

**(1) **The city of Manchester effectively has two Town Halls, next door to each other on Albert Square. The older of the two is the original late-Victorian building, which is a product of the high glory days of the British Empire. It drips with the architectural bling known as High Gothic on the outside, and on the inside has al the grand feel of a secular cathedral. The statement it makes is that this is a civic building of a proud people, the world's undisputed superpower, and anyone seeking to supplant Great Britain or challenge her might should stop and reflect that even a provincial city should be able to afford civic buildings of this magnificence.

The Town Hall Annexe and public library complex next door were dedicated in 1936. There is no extraneous decoration on the outside. The walls are plain brick with massive expanses of brushed concrete and the storeys are unreasonably tall and the windows un-naturally high. Gone is the bling and unchallenged self-confidence of the Victorians. This is the aftermath of World War One and the growing fear of a second. This building has much in common with public buildings in Mussolini's Rome and Hitler's Berlin: it is designed to intimidate by size and remind the individual of his or her relative unimportance. In the High Fascist 1930's, an era that even infected democracies, the State is all and everything. As the self-confidence drained out of Britain in the aftermath of 1918, the architecture got plainer and more threatening, as if to compensate.

**(2) **This is true. See the very readable _**Panic Attacks: Media Manipulation and Mass Delusion**_, by Robert E. Batrtholomew and Hilary Evans, Sutton Publishing Ltd, 2004. In the chapter on War of the Worlds, it is revealed that there have been no less than _**seven **_adaptations of the Orson Welles play around the world that have led to mass panic and people fleeing their homes.

**(3)** See Terry Pratchett's_**Guards! Guards! **_

**(4)**See my story _**Career Guidance**_

**(5)**See my story _**Clowning is a Serious Business**_

**(6) **In 1985, this would not have been a silly question. Manchester United had last won the English league title in the 1967-68 season. By 1985, their fans and friends, in a decade dominated by Liverpool, were growing old waiting for another.


	33. Verdict

_**Slipping Between Worlds – 33**_

Frankie McElroy knew he was in trouble. If only he hadn't delayed in getting away from that bloody house. The blood had gone right to his head as it always did when he held the power of an Armalite. That was the bloody trouble, always. Even with friends in the Republic who could organise discreet training, you never got enough contact time with the weapons. Rounds were in short supply and had to be carefully hoarded and used sparingly, and even the weapons themselves could only be broken out in strict operational secrecy.

It felt shameful to have to fire no more than two rounds at a time and then cut and run. But wasn't it drummed into you from Day One that if you was ever such an eejit as to stop and have a shooting match with the Brits, there were more of them than there were of you, they had the better training, if not the better gun, and they certainly had no shortage of ammunition to fire back at you? No, you waited for a target of opportunity. Even if it meant coming back without a round expended, if there were no clear shots and you considered discretion – and coming back with a weapon the Cause could ill-afford to lose – that was better than being killed or captured and losing a valuable rifle.

You caught them on the tip, you took advantage of that initial surprise, and you watched first to select the most valuable target.

Officers were good, the more senior the better, if you could identify them. Some of the fellas advocated going for sergeants – it took the best part of twenty years to make a senior sergeant in anyone's Army, and if you could deprive them of those twenty years of skill and experience with one bullet, that would really hurt the Brits. Far more so than taking out one more of what seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of plummy-voiced well spoken upper-class young Englishmen. _Why didn't the Brits wake up to there being a class struggle? Ach, young proletarian working-class lads not much different to ourselves, sent out by their ruling classes to die here on our streets in a battle they cannot win. Can they not join the dots and realise and turn those guns on their officers? _

McElroy nearly screamed with frustration. He'd spent a long time working his way up the ranks of the Brigade gaining trust and performing all manner of low-level tasks, before he'd even got a whiff of sniper training. He'd started out as a teenage runner, smuggling bullets, explosives or bomb components, and that took _balls_ at all the checkpoints and halts. He'd run messages. He'd turned out for riots and demonstrations without needing to be told twice. He'd _persuaded _other kids who were lagging back, or who clearly didn't want to be involved, to turn out for riots and boost the numbers. A tough and physically strong youth, sometimes the persuasion had needed to be _physical_. But then, the Youth Brigade backed him up in dealing with the half-hearted and the reluctant. He'd graduated to collecting donations from local shopkeepers and business owners to support the Cause. The Brits called this "protection money". McElvoy bridled at the implication they were just criminal thugs running a protection racket. So now and again you had to deliver a threat, generally a verbal hint, to a reluctant payer. Perhaps a beating to the more reluctant, or else they'd find their windows broken and their car stolen and burnt out. Just getting across the message that Ireland was in a war situation and everybody contributed – the Cause did not accept conscientious or other objection. And after all, the bloody Prots used the UDA and UFF to do broadly the same sort of consciousness-raising on their side of the river, so it's a legitimate tool of war.

From collecting to enforcing: it was widely held that the RUC, being a 95% Protestant police force, had no legitimacy enforcing the accepted rule of law in Nationalist areas. Here, the IRA filled the vacancy. The sort of low-level criminal filth, once identified, that presented a law enforcement problem, was warned first to get out. You're exiled. If a burglar, a mugger, or other anti-social scum, dared remain after a warning to leave, the next step was a _capping. _Sometimes this was done with a small-calibre bullet fired through the knee from the side, or from behind the joint and outwards through the kneecap. Generally, though, to prevent being compromised and to conserve ammunition stocks, this was done with a lump of concrete or a builders' sledgehammer. _We are not a cruel people_, thought McElroy._ We make sure somebody rings for an ambulance afterwards and they know where to find the perp. And they rarely reoffend afterwards. _And besides, Northern Irish hospitals were the best in the world at reconstructing shattered knees. It put us on the map.

McElroy had done two years in prison after being caught with bomb components. The Maze had been like a university in IRA history, ideology, and further training in various disciplines. He had also been interrogated by IRA Intelligence one dark night. They had wanted to know what he had said to the Brits in captivity, whether he'd named names, compromised operations.

In the deeply and necessarily paranoid world of the Provisional IRA, that had _hurt. _But afterwards he was relieved that the Movement had restored its trust in him to the extent that he had been sent across the border to learn to fire the Armalite.

And, some of that paranoia having ingrained into him, he wondered, with a chill and cold feeling, if this sniping assignment had been a set-up designed to lose a dubious asset to the Cause. It was not unknown. Men whose loyalty was in doubt had in the past been sent out to deliver a car bomb. Not knowing the fuse was already running and timed to go off a lot sooner than they anticipated. The Brit soldiers gleefully called such things "own goals". McElvoy knew better. _Some were genuine accidents, yes. _

But he had shuddered, realising he'd spent too much time duelling with that determined Brit who was out in the open, stopping and firing every so often as if it were some sort of exercise. And that crazy Brit, who had all the signs of _officer _written about him, who had sprinted out unarmed to rescue the crazy old hag who'd appeared from nowhere, pushing her shopping trolley with all the bags in…_too many targets! _

He thought, he really thought, he had got the officer, but the lucky English bastard had moved at the last instant and the bullet had whipped by his face. And then the other soldier had unerringly returned fire, the bullet, his first shot, snapping through the window-frame, splintering the wood and forcing him to duck. _That's no ordinary Brit down there! That's a man with experience who knows how to fight! _

Borne up on the bloodrush and the romance of it all, he carried in trading shots for a while, and then realised his training.

_Once they know you're there, get out! Or they'll come for you!_

McElroy considered his options. The first escape route was out through the back door, through the alley, and through the house behind. But by now the Brits will have sealed down the alley and they'll be waiting…

He automatically cleared up the spent cases he could see. _Don't make it easy for them. And spent cases can be refilled. _

He'd have to use the alternative exit, then…

_Into the roofspace above the houses. The cheapskates who built these houses made them with a single continuous attic. The dividing walls are not continued upwards. Once in there, make your careful way along, under the roof, until you are twenty houses down at Number 97. Judging by their standard practice, this will take you out behind the Brit cordon. There is a place at 97 to cache the weapon and incriminating evidence. You will be shown. _

"_The roof it is, then" _thought McElvoy, as he ran to the attic access point over the main stair landing. He was just swinging himself up into it, holding on to the Armalite for dear life, when the world exploded…..

* * *

The Patrician looked grave. The crowded throneroom was quiet.

It was clear that a moment of decision was at hand.

Vetinari reached up and adjusted the placement of the black skullcap on his head. This, to Holtack's eyes, was not good. He recalled the black skullcap was only ever worn in a British court by a judge about to pronounce the death sentence.

"Time presses, and there are other matters of great urgency demanding my attention. " Vetinari said. "I have seen the three of you and we have reviewed the reports and available evidence as to how, if not why, you come to be in my city. I am satisfied that none of you represents a threat to the life or wellbeing of this city, save perhaps for accidentally so. I might be convinced that you are all innocent of this city and this world, and that in your current states of semi-ignorance, this City is more of a risk to you. I am also satisfied that Professor Stibbons, assisted by our other high-calibre technomantic minds, will make every effort to return the three of you to your own world as soon as can be arranged. However…"

_Brace yourself. That was not a good "however". _

"However. I may be accounted as the Tyrant of this city, but that clearly implies that I too must be held accountable to its laws." Vetinari looked briefly at Vimes. "That point has been proven beyond all possible doubt. After the havoc wrought in this city the last time a _gonne _weapon appeared here, I enacted a new city law. That there be no more _gonnes_ within the precincts of the cities of Ankh and Morpork. This has been strictly and scrupulously obeyed, I am happy to say, until last night.

"The three of you appeared on my streets with gonnes. Two of you fired them. Lieutenant Holtack, I am satisfied that that your use of the gonne was in legitimate self-defence. Witness reports concerning you have stressed that on other occasions where you might have used the gonne in self-defence, you refrained from this and employed other tactics to resolve the situation without un-necessary loss of life. I do not personally read you as an indiscriminate mass murderer.

"Fusilier Hughes, you fired in understandable fear in a strange and completely foreign situation. Luckily for you, you missed.

"Fusilier Ruijterman, you refrained from shooting completely and surrendered instantly. I read you as a very experienced fighting soldier who knows when to fight and when not to put up resistance.

"You were brought here by force of circumstance rather than conscious volition and I am happy to accept that fact. Yet I cannot set my own law aside. And my law clearly sets out the penalty for those who bring gonnes into my city and discharge them here.

"Lieutenant Philip Owen James Holtack, the sentence is death. The sentence will be carried out three mornings from now at the Tanty prison. Is there anything you would like to say?"

_Think quickly. Jocasta hinted this is not the end. Can't see any angels, though. _

"And the same sentence applies to my Fusiliers, sir?" Holtack said. Vetinari nodded.

"May I request that as the senior officer present, justice might be served if only I were to be executed, and the sentence upon Ruijterman and Hughes is commuted? It could be argued they were acting on my orders and mercy demands they be reprieved."

"Noted. Is there anything else?"

"Yes, sir. Do the standard last courtesies to the condemned man apply here?"

"And these are? Please enumerate them." said Vetinari.

"Firstly, sir, the custom that the condemned man is allowed a last meal of his choice."

"That is known here, Lieutenant. I see no reason why not."

"Thank you, sir" Holtack said, with feeling. "I request _pysgodyn a sglodion gan ppys __stwnsh__a bara bryth.__**"**_

"Fish and chips with pulverised peas and some sort of bread to follow." Vetinari repeated, after the shortest of pauses. "Presumably fried in batter? Yes, we can accommodate that. Please clarify "_bara bryth_" for me?"

Holtack winced. 

"A sweet bread dough made with raisins and sultanas and other mixed fruit, using stewed tea rather than water. A local delicacy in North Wales, sir." He clarified. _Damn, damn, damn. _

Vetinari smiled, as he made a note. .

"I kept hearing people saying that Llamedosian was an impossible language to learn." he said, by way of explanation. "I took a statement like that as something of a challenge. And besides, if you accept the fact the shape of a word may change when it makes its agreements for plurality, gender, ownership and so on, then what is so difficult about these changes occuring at the beginning, rather than the ending, of a word?"

Vetinari nodded to Holtack. "And the other courtesy to be extended to the dying man?"

"I believe, sir, if I am to be executed then I have a right to observe the appropriate religious ritual with a priest of my religion. So that I cross over in a shriven and fitting state."

Vetinari gave him a cool look.

There was a noise from the silent crowd. It was Lord Rust.

"Damn it, Havelock, that seems only right and proper!" he said. "The man might otherwise be a complete rank bad hat with no gentlemanly graces, but even he's entitled to a confessor and a padre of his choosing before he hangs!"

Vetinari raised a hand, without looking at Rust.

"Tell me your religion, Lieutenant?"

"I am a communicant of the Anglican Church in Wales, sir." Holtack said, brightly.

Only then did Vetinari give Rust a look that said _Once again, Ronald, you have demonstrated why you are not Patrician and I am. _

Vetinari looked across to the other two prisoners.

They looked at each other and then back at Vetinari.

"Presbyterian Church of Wales, sir!" said Hughes.

"Dutch Reformed Church of South Africa, sir." added Ruijterman.

There was low appreciative laughter in the throneroom.

"I cannot help reflecting" Vetinari said, "that you all belong to Roundworld religions which as yet have no foothold on this Disc and certainly no priests." he said. "I will concede that this aspect might well delay your executions somewhat. As you no doubt intended, Lieutenant."

Holtack tried to look innocent. Vetinari tried to avoid looking at him.

"But since we have arrived at the subject of religion," Vetinari continued, "it may well be a moot time to introduce the concept of angels. Do you believe in angels, Lieutenant Holtack?"

"As messengers and envoys from God to the human race, bringers of good hope, who precipitate miracles?" Holtack asked. "Our religion believes this may be so, sir."

"Ah. The idea of precipitating a miracle. Perhaps offering last-minute reprieve to the condemned man." Vetinari said, genially. "Normally you only ever get _one_."

He paused, and studied Holtack's face critically. Holtack tried to look earnest and sincere in a new-found religious faith.

"As I am forced to concede you have a right to the appropriate form of religious consolation prior to your death, and that there may be a necessary and indefinite delay in bringing about your execution until we are in a position to provide a priest of your choosing, then a necessary, ah, _suspended_, quality now attaches itself to your sentence." Vetinari went on. "Even if I were to suggest you convert to one of our religious faiths, where we have no shortage of suitably ordained priests nor indeed of Gods, this would inevitably necessitate a pause in the process while you adopted the appropriate form of awed humility as a seeker after Truth, and opened yourself to the evangelical process that would guide you to the correct God out of, let me see now, three thousand seven hundred and fifty seven, at the last count."

"Which might take some time, sir." Holtack said, reflectively.

"Indeed, Lieutenant. Indeed. And even if you were to choose, for arguments' sake, fellowship and comfort in Blind Io, Lord of the Gods, Ionianism insists a postulant for adult communion is baptised, receives intensive instruction and First Communion seven years after baptism, and is not accounted a full adult member of the Faith for fourteen years at which time they are Confirmed. And under law, only adults may be executed.

"So to stay in accordance with our own laws, both civic and religious, I would have to delay your execution by fourteen years. At least. And in that time, you might have proven yourself to be such a fine and upstanding member of the community that a fair-minded and just ruler may choose to grant amnesty, or commute the sentence.

"Happily, we might not have to wait that long, as several angels are about to vie for your attention. I advise you to listen to their propositions very carefully, and I will allow you one month for you to decide which Angel you choose to accept. The death sentence stands, but is indefinitely commuted, dependent on your good behaviour and your ability to demonstrate that during your stay here, you are a good and upright temporary citizen of Ankh-Morpork."

Vetinari nodded at the military.

"Brigadier Mountjoy-Standfast?"

The intelligent and capable looking officer, in his early to middle fifties, stood up and nodded acknowledgement.

"As you may know, Lieutenant, by the grace of Lord Vetinari I command the Palace Brigade, which consists of the Palace Guards Regiment and the Regiment of Horse Artillery." he said.

"I have to say I'm impressed with you and your men and their ability to think quickly and respond under pressure. I realise and understand your first loyalty is to your own command and your own Army, but the three of you are a somewhat detached command at the moment. Would you like to come to me on permanent attachment, under the appropriate pay and seniority scales, and experience life with the armed forces of this world? I can use another able officer, and I can never have enough trained men, still less a man with Chosen One written all over him."

The Brigadier hastily explained: "A Chosen Man is a ranker who has the potential to rise to Sergeant very quickly, Mr Ruijterman."

"That's a very noble offer, sir" Holtack said, diplomatically. "As far as I'm concerned, I have no objections to either Hughes or Ruijterman seeking service with you, if that's what they wish while we are guests here. I assume I don't need to give a yes or a no yet, as there are other offers waiting for me?"

"By all means, Lieutenant!"

"Thank you, sir!"

They exchanged salutes, and to Holtack's surprise, the next Angel was a grinning scar-faced cigar-smoking one with very grimy wings.

Vimes glared at him silently before speaking. Holtack tried to hold the steady gaze.

"Now, see here, boy", he said, at length. "I'm still not sure if I like you or not. You're too bloody cocky, for one thing, and too ready with a quick answer. But I'm damned if I'm letting Downey have you without a fight, as I don't think too much of your soul's been corrupted yet and more than that, there are qualities about you that could make you a good Watch officer. Do you know my Watch has grown to three hundred officers over the last few years? And do you know how many officers I've got? _Three, _that's all. Me, Captain Carrot, and Inspector Loudweather of the Particulars. Maybe four, if Sergeant Angua stops dithering and accepts Captain's rank, and Gods know she's overdue. Carrot will only step up to Deputy Commander with a bit more persuasion, and Gods know _he's _overdue, but that still leaves me with three or four openings at officer level for exceptional people. Carrot assures me that some police forces around the world have such a rank as Police Lieutenant, which ranks below a Captain and about on a par with our old Chief Inspector rank.

"From what I've seen and from what HEX tells me, you people had to unlearn being soldiers and had to start learning to think and act like policemen. That means you've got skills I can use. If you were just a soldier I wouldn't want to bloody well know!

"So what I'm offering you, boy, is basic training – you'll walk through it – a necessary time on the beat as a Constable to get to know this city and how it operates, then accelerated promotion back to the rank of Lieutenant. Same to young Hughes there, except in his case I suspect there might be a useful Corporal a year or so down the road. Not sure what I could do with Ruijterman, but at present… well, there's a country called White Howondaland, you're as near as dammit one of its people, and only one of its citizens has ever been in the Watch. I'd have to take you on probation and see how you get on as a street copper. No offence meant, but there are lots of people in this town who don't have a white skin."

"None taken, sir" said Ruijterman.

"I spotted the sergeant in you too. Demonstrate you can police fairly and inside a year you'll be a sergeant again."

Vimes nodded, said "You can all think about this. No hurry." And moved away, allowing Lord Downey to step forward at a nod from Vetinari.

Downey, who looked as innocuous as an older schoolmaster of the kindlier sort, or perhaps a clergyman in late middle age, paused and assessed the three soldiers.

"My, er, angel, is only, regrettably, applicable to Lieutenant Holtack" he began. "Although my Guild is always in need of capable and intelligent ancillary staff and I'm sure arrangements can be made to employ the other two men in suitable positions.

"Lieutenant, you impressed a lot of people when you, er, _arrived_, last night, by your prompt and capable conduct in a seriously life-threatening situation. Knowing nothing of this city and the considerable dangers it poses to the unwary, you fought off an immediate threat to your life with a commendable degree of skill and resource. Testimony from Miss Band, Miss Wiggs and others states that you inhumed two dangerous thieves and incapacitated a third within minutes of arrival. Miss Band, who is a skilled teacher of young Assassins and is not easily impressed or given to fulsome praise, was really rather approving of the method and lack of hesitation with which you disposed of the immediate threat, and then set about obtaining information as to where you were and what to do about it. And please, Mr Boggis, you will get your turn to speak on behalf of the Guild of Thieves in due course!"

This last was to an indignant and fussily moustached little man in a brown suit and a slightly absurd brown bowler hat, who was fulminating at the edges of the crowd. Holtack considered the little Thief did not intend to offer an Angel of any kind.

"You killed two Thieves and then extracted money and information from them – Miss Band noted your ability to conduct an interrogation and the petinent nature of the questions you asked. Miss Wiggs then followed you, covertly at first, and observed you fight off a second attack, although without use of your weapon this time. She also observed you talk your way out of a difficult situation involving two Clowns. Who by the way can be a danger if treated with disrespect."

Downey nodded at the senior Clown in the absurd white makeup, who acknowledged him with a slight bow.

"She directly intervened when you encountered a couple of angry Seamstresses and decided this was where your luck might have run out and you needed a friend. You then impressed her with your confidence, intelligence and reasoning abilities and gave yourself up to the Watch of your own free will. I was present at your interrogation and I was personally able to observe the ease with which you withstood fairly determined questioning and the sort of disorientation tactics the Watch uses to soften up a prisoner. I also saw the way you conducted yourself at this session of Council, and I find you impressive.

"I'm sure we can discuss such issues as where and how you learnt your skills at a later date. But for now, as Master of the Guild of Assassins, I would like to formally invite you to join the Guild as an adult entrant. We run fairly regular Mature Student Classes for adult entrants such as yourself, and we have another scheduled to begin soon. It did not escape my notice that after inhuming the two Thieves last night you searched their bodies for money, and a broad interpretation of that observed fact is that as well as acting in self-defence, you may have consciously considered relieving their corpses of money afterwards. In the strict wording of the City protocol that makes it possible for me to make you this offer, that could be considered as obtaining payment for unlicenced inhumation. Do ask Miss Wiggs or Miss Band about the implications of that clause when you have a moment.

As these are unusual circumstances, however, I will make this offer to you completely freely and I look forward to hearing a positive response at the end of the month's grace period. I do believe you have the makings of a first-class Assassin, however, in all respects. Please speak to Miss Wiggs, and she will make arrangements to take you on a full tour of the Guild. Thank you!"

"There you have it" Vetinari said. "You have three angels, and one month to decide between them. I therefore commute the death sentence on you to one of a suspended sentence, set aside by this Court on the proviso that your gonne-weapons are surrendered into the safe custody of the City. Should you touch or carry a Gonne in this city again, save with my approval and permission, the sentence will be activated immediately. By the way, I strongly recommend you find a congenial priest who can then convey the good news of his religion to you. I am not a theologian, but I am not as yet aware of any situations where the word or domain of a God extends across more than one world. I will obtain a fuller ruling later, but I am not aware that any of the Gods of the Roundworld also claim jurisdiction in this Discworld. I do not believe any Discworld God even knows, or cares, that other planets exist. Therefore your own God has been left behind and has no authority here, sorry to say, and for the duration of your stay, _for all purposes for which religion is appropriate,_ you'll have to make do with ours."

"In my Father's house, there are many mansions.**(1)**1" Holtack quoted.

"That is a quote of your God?" Vetinari inquired.

"It is, sir, yes."

"Many mansions indeed." Vetinari said, thoughtfully, "But still only one _house_. And this is, assuredly, not it. Moving on… I note that very industriously, Lieutenant, you acquired the sum of four hundred and thirty two dollars and fifty-seven pence? By searching Thieves, over whom you had gained the upper hand."

"Yes, sir. I considered it fair dealings, as they were out to rob me."

Vetinari nodded, but the absurd little man in the brown suit looked fit to explode. Vetinari lifted a hand to forestall him.

"Lieutenant, while I rule that the two men you killed last night were killed in legitimate self-defence and no more criminal action needs to be taken, there is also a civil aspect to our Law."

"Sir." Said Holtack.

"Miss Wiggs did explain to you how our compact with the Guild of Thieves operates?"

"Yes, sir. Pay them enough protection money and they agree not to rob you."

Boggis glared evilly at him and tried to speak. Vetinari silenced him with a lifted hand.

"Good, Out of that four hundred and thirty two dollars, Lieutenant, I kindly counsel you to negotiate immunity from theft or street crime for one year for yourself and your two soldiers. A Licenced Thief was killed last night at your hand. I would also strongly recommend you make an additional, unforced and entirely voluntary, donation to the Thieves' Guild's Widows and Orphans' fund, of perhaps fifty dollars. Mr Boggis?"

"Fifty dollars would be acceptable, sir." he said, the offer of money bringing Boggis back down from a moral high ground which was not his natural vantage-point in life**(2)**2. "That's three gentlemen at a hundred dollars each for the platinum package… ensures complete immunity from theft or street robbery for thirteen months.."

Holtack winced, This would almost clean him out.

Jocasta Wiggs strode forward, looking annoyed.

"Stop trying to cheat him, Mr Boggis!" she demanded. "You know and I know the Platinum offer confers _group _protection for a one-off payment of one hundred dollars! You're relying on his ignorance to get it three times over! "

Boggis grinned, weakly, as men do when confronted with an irritated lady Assassin.

"Point taken, miss. Hundred and fifty, mr Alien From Space, and my boys leave you alone, even if provoked!"

"And I want a receipt!" Holtack said.

"You get a lapel badge." Boggis said. "That way the Guild knows you're paid up."

"Well, we wouldn't want any little misunderstandings, would we, Mr Boggis?" Holtack said, affably. "Especially if I were to join the Guild of Assassins, who have just made me a very interesting offer?"

"We can, I think, do without any more dead thieves in our city." Vetinari said, hurriedly. Vimes muttered something about littering being an offence, which was not challenged. "And if Lieutenant Holtack were to join the Guild, he would, naturally, be entitled to a partial refund of his Thieves' Guild premium, under existing arrangements."

Vimes sighed.

"Could I ask where these three gentlemen are going to stay while in this city?" he asked. "When you consider that bloody mob's out there in a panic about invaders from another world, and we've got three of 'em in here now, we can hardly allow them to walk out of the door, even if they've been tried and freed on probation."

"Assuredly not, Commander. Before we go in to discuss the mob at our gates, which is a pressing matter, may we dispose of this item of business? Ah… Lady Sybil?"

Sybil Ramkin had forced her way forwards and was looking more than usually determined.

"Havelock, may I make a proposition?" she said. "The young man is, after all, an officer and a gentleman, and I'm just _sure _he'd be an entertaining house-guest. Why not free him into Sam's custody, so that he could be a guest at Ramkin Manor for however long it takes? Willkins can make sure he doesn't go anywhere in the City or outside the grounds without an escort, and we can see there's fair play with regard to the Guild and the Brigadier having access to him."

Vimes' face went very carefully neutral as Vetinari raised an eyebrow in his direction.

"If that's acceptable to you, sir." He said. "It's certainly acceptable to Sybil."

"That's very kind of you, ma'am." Holtack said. "But what about Hughes and Ruijterman? They can hardly go back to the cells now".

"I've got Watchmen's accommodation at the Yard and at the Training School" Vimes said. "Let's see now. Full board and laundry, and if there's anything you think you can help out with as regards training Watchmen, run it past me and I'll see what we can do?"

"I do not want to be on a dole while I em here." said Ruijterman. "If there are duties I cen perform in return for your hospitality, I would be pleased to essist!"

Vimes grinned. "As I said. If you're half the soldier and leader I read you to be, there's a _lot _of things you could do!"

"Then were agreed then" Holtack said. "Smashing. But one very last thing, sir. It's regarded as a very big offence to lose your rifle and the Army doesn't look upon that kindly at all. I don't need to touch or handle the guns, just to be reassured they're in an absolutely safe place where they won't deteriorate and nobody can steal them."

"We can deal with that in due course." Vetinari agreed. "For now, all you need to know is that the Watch have custody, they know from the previous incidence of _gonne_-related crime how dangerous they are, and they do not need telling to store the weapons under _very_ safe guard. Drumknott?"

"Lord de Worde and Mr Jameson are here, sir. As you requested."

"Ah, the newspaper editors. Do bring them in, Drumknott. I do so look forward to interviewing my free Press!"

* * *

The strange procession moved slowly and surely in the dank glow of the Undercity. Olga's eyes had adjusted to the dripping gloom, and she reminded herself that she was a witch. This experience should therefore be right up her street, even though she shuddered as a scuttling something sniffed and chattered about her feet then ran off.

"Palace rat" one of the escorting Assassins whispered to her. "They'll be reporting our progress back to Vetinari."

Two Assassins were manipulating a stretcher on which sat a large box-chest, glittering with ice and refrozen melt. The glass jar containing the Queen had been packed down into lots of ice and a _something else_ the older vulture-faced Assassin had added as a little courtesy detail from the Guild.

Olga had had to admit to herself that a staring contest between the Queen and Joan-Sanderson-Reeves could have gone on for hours, each regarding the other with interest and thinly-disguised loathing. It was almost as if the older lady Assassin could _borrow_ – there seemed to be a meeting of implacable ice-cold minds going on. Then Joan had stretched out a leather-gauntleted hand, scrunched around in a drum of deadly chemical until she had a goodly quantity of lethal-looking crystals of sodium hydroxide, and had casually thrown it at the Queen's glass tank, the glittering substance impacting like the world's most lethal snowball. The effect on the Queen had been unexpected by everyone against Joan: it had shied back from the shower of crystal as if afraid of it.

Joan had nodded with satisfaction and taken another handful of the chemical, holding it in the palm of her glove, moving around the glass jar and keeping it fully visible at all times. The thing had screeched audibly and backed to the opposite side of the jar, as far away as it could get, as if registering deadly poison.

Joan nodded satisfaction and scraped the stuff back into its thick protective drum. She then frowned disapprovingly at where it had begun to eat into the thick leather of the gauntlet.

"So it is scared of something!" Captain Carrot had said.

"Basic alchemy, Captain" Joan had said. "This brute spits acid. It has an acid-based biology. The acid it spits is jolly destructive pH one. What better to neutralize it than a jolly strong caustic?"

Olga had nodded approval. They said, given time, the Guild of Assassins could come up with a poison for anything. But it was still impressive that Miss Sanderson-Reeves had considered the problem for five minutes flat and come up with the correct poison for a completely new biology that had never been seen before.

"Sodium hydroxide. Caustic soda. The Guild's janitor uses it to clear stubborn drains and toilets. It stands at twelve and a bit on the pH scale. On its own it can turn any human fat and tissue to soap in no seconds nothing. Regard my glove, which is, after all, animal skin." She brandished a clearly partly corroded leather gauntlet.

She turned to the two Assassins who would also be part of the Undercity party. They wore large spray-tanks on their backs, protected by thick leather jerkins, and held spray-guns connected to the tanks. Joan carefully patted a tank.

"The Guild groundsmen use these to spray weedkiller. I've had them refilled with a heavy potassium hydroxide solution. Caustic potash, at thirteen and a bit on the pH scale. If Madame there gets out, they are under orders to give her both barrels, pronto. Acid plus alkali equals salt and water, Captain. Under a barrage like this, she'll be a puddle of salty water in thirty seconds."

And now the Queen was packed in ice, to make her sleepy and sluggish, with a layer of wax on top of the ice and a layer of sodium hydroxide crystals above that. If she broke the glass, she'd have to fight through a deluge of what to her would be deadly poison. And then the spray guns would start blitzing her…

Olga grinned, and started to enjoy the walk.

"We'll be coming up to the Emperor's Gate in a few minutes, miss" said her guide. "you've never seen it before?"

"Never" said Olga.

"Three thousand years ago, the old Latatian legions marched out this way. This is the point in the old City walls where the main gate was. The new city is built on top, of course. But this road is broad and direct and allows us a long egress out into New Ankh with no drainholing involved."

"Drainholing?"

"Edificeering in reverse, miss. Only _downwards,_ underneath the city. We should come out a mile or so away from the Zoo. There'll be a coach waiting for us."

Olga grinned. It looked as if the mission was about to be recovered, after all. She tipped her hat to the first of the statues of the Old Kings that lined the route. _And I had no idea anything like this existed! _

_

* * *

_

Frankie McElroy awoke in an old deserted house. He groaned and sniffed the air. Even by the relaxed attitudes of West Derry, it felt and looked like a slum. And that _stink… _There was a marked absence of shooting and movement in the street outside. He heard_…. horses?..._ in the distance. He forced himself, after a while, to get up and cautiously move around. He looked for a light switch and couldn't find one. There didn't even seem to be any gas. A very cautious look out of the window confirmed he was in a town, but it wasn't Derry, not even the old city. There were no new buildings. Something else was odd too… no paved roads? No telephone wires? No lamp-posts?

It put him in mind of old pictures he'd seen, of Wexford and Waterford before Cromwell's English bastards had burnt the towns down and slaughtered the people.

_I can't even see a tap_, he thought_. Surely to goodness, if this is the twenty-eight counties and I've been moved over here, even the most rural parts have got piped water by now? Even County bloody Donegal has electricity? _

He needed a drink. How did people get water here? With no taps? He recalled that most modern Irish people are at most four generations away from those who didn't even have running water. _What did my grandmother say? Her mother had to go to a communal well, water-pump or something, to be sure of what the family needed? It'll be outside. But can I trust the outside? And I'll need to hide the gun. _

He forced himself to be calm, and searched the house. He found some bread, maybe two or three days old, and cheese. A further search turned up, praise to Herself, a bottle of beer: _Winkles' Old Peculiar? Ah well… _some money, a small handful of unfamilar coin. He pocketed this, gladly. Then turned up a newspaper, a copy of the _**Ankh-Morpork Inquirer**_, and read this as he ate. Glimmerings of understanding penetrated his confusion here and there. As one used to continual low-level paranoia and a habitual state of fearing the worst, he began to suspect he knew why this house had been vacated in such a hurry. _If the bloody newspapers are spreading this panic about an alien invasion you might want to think twice about staying at home. _

But where the Hell was he? _No Brits. No peelers. No barricades. No cars in the street. No electricity. No gas. No running water. _

_Wherever I am it isn't Derry in 1985. _A new fear gripped him.

_Did I die in that bomb? Did a Brit bullet get me? All I recall is a blinding white light… was that death? But if I did, why did the gun come with me? Should I not have met somebody from Heaven or…the other place… by now? _

Some sort of internal body-clock was telling McElroy he had been unconscious for between two and eight hours. He certainly felt refreshed.

He went on a thorough search of the mean store of household goods this family had. It took a depressingly short time. The only things he turned up that hinted at disposable income were a few childrens' toys and a set of fishing rods, contained in a long narrow bag. This gave him an idea. He tipped the rods and reels out and replaced them with the Armalite, which fitted well enough, its lines concealed and obscured by the fabric of the bag. McElroy nodded, and did two more things before leaving the house. He drank some water, having found a bucket of relatively clear stuff by the scullery sink. He did not think to check for sedimentation or discolouring. The second thing he did was more properly an omission. He did not spot a spent cartridge, one of those he had carefully collected up to deny the Brits, fall from a small hole in the fisherman's rod-bag and onto the hovel's floor. It rolled onto a threadbare rug with no telltale noise, and then to underneath a kitchen table.

Frankie McElroy then stepped out, Armalite rifle and accessories hidden in a fisherman's rod-bag, to take his chances with Ankh-Morpork, and to lose himself in a crowd. He drifted with the crowd down progressively wider and more important streets until it came to a wide square….

* * *

1 **(1) Gospel of John, 14:2**

2 **(2) **Because Boggis got very dizzy when up on a moral high ground. It wasn't natural territory for him.


	34. Earning credit as a good citizen

_**Slipping Between Worlds – 34**_

"Did you have to struggle to get here, gentlemen?" Vetinari asked the two newspaper editors, meaningfully.

"Well, sir, it would have been impossible to get here by foot." said Derek Jameson, editor of the down-market _**Ankh-Morpork Inquirer. **_William de Worde, editor of the more reflective _**Ankh-Morpork Times**__ (The Truth shall make ye Fried!")_ winced slightly at the opening his colleague was offering. Sacharissa Cripslock, who had walked in behind, although not strictly included in the invitation, grimaced.

Jameson, a man thought of by the Gamblers as ideal for a poker game if Mr Boggis of the Thieves' Guild were unavailable, went on, not reading the subtle signs,

"I mean, we were at a loss when the clacks came in requesting us to attend. No way of making it here on foot with _that _crowd in the street."

"Indeed, Mr Jameson. _Do_ continue". The Patrician invited him.

"When that magic-carpet driver who works for Mr deWorde came in to land, and dropped off the iconographer – amazing idea, mr de Worde, aerial pictures, wished we'd thought of it first – that solved the problem , really, and got us both here."

"Is that bugger still here, Jameson?" demanded Vimes. "Mister Joe le sodding Taxi is going to get _grilled_ if I've got something to do with it!"

"Yes, Commander." Jameson replied. "Sergeant Littlebottom detained him and he's assisting with Watch enquiries right now. Something about a vehicle shunt?"

Vetinari sighed and drew attention to the stacks of paperwork on his desk.

"Here in this pile I have a stack of increasingly worried and insistent clacks messages from overseas embassies. All demanding to know, in essence, if I am still in charge in this city. They also wish clarification of current events.

"Here in this pile, clacks messages and updates from the governments of our nearest neighbours, updating me on the refugee problem and asking, in veiled diplomatic terms, if I am still in charge, and what either I _or my successor in government_ intends to do about it.

"Here in this room, representatives of the City Watch and the main Guilds, who are all using their own intelligence-gathering networks to monitor the crowd in the streets, currently estimated at three to four hundred thousand. I am grateful of their assistance. On the rear wall, you will see an updated view of the scene from the top of this Palace. It is not a happy one."

Vetinari indicated the HEX- omniscope view, relayed via gargoyles and cherubs.

"And _here_" Vetinari lifted copies of the _**Octeday Times**_ and the _**Octeday Inquirer**_, one in each hand, "is the perceived root cause of all the panic that has driven people onto the streets!"

"Now I know you people think before you print." He said, coldly. "I just wish sometimes you would think in terms other than "_this edition is going to really sell out"_ . Did you not foresee that this sort of material has the power to influence otherwise empty humdrum minds looking for a bit of thrill or adventure or sensation? I understand the logic of the Octeday papers is to provide ample reading matter to stimulate and recharge the mind on a day of rest from labour, but between you, gentlemen, you have provided the material of a penny-dreadful novel, and on the basis of a handful of known facts and a lot of speculation, you have made it true in the minds of a million people. And this is the consequence! _People believe what they see in print. _You have charged their minds with ideas and pictures and their imaginations have done the rest.

"Now we have a longer struggle ahead of us involving discharging those ideas and impressions and returning to normal! And I would like to hear your ideas as to how we do this, bloodlessly and with minimal damage to persons and property!"

"So we have _not_ been invaded by aliens from another world, my lord?" Sacharissa Cripslock ventured, pencil and notepad at the ready.

Vetinari looked crossly at her.

"_Visited_, yes. Invaded, no. As so often happens, miss Cripslock, the truth is stranger than fiction. And I am minded to allow you a full and open interview with three of our visitors. It appears to me that full and frank disclosure may be the only way to defuse this situation."

Jameson jumped, and looked around him, nervously. All he could see were the usual assortment of civic dignitaries who advised the Patrician in times like this, and given the looks on their faces, it wasn't a comforting sight. And all of them, even Lord Downey, who acknowledged him with a disconcerting small smile and a nod, did not seem predisposed to offering him a warm welcome and praise for his well-thought-out and verbally restrained publication. He tried to recall who he just might have offended recently. He briefly met Alice Band's scathing look, and gulped. What had his Society Diarist hinted recently about a prominent Assassin whose personal life included visits to the notorious Blue Cat Club and an Ephebian Island Lifestyle… _dear gods, we didn't _**name** _her, surely… but everybody knows, or suspects, something about Alice Band, with no obvious male suitor and an ability for being seen out and about in the company of pretty girls…_

It was not a comforting thought. Jameson ventured, nervously, in a way that demonstrated why he and Mr Boggis were net losers at poker,

"Sir, I only see human beings here. There are no obvious aliens?"

Vetinari allowed a disdainful look to pass across his face.

"Anyone acquainted with the science-fiction genre of novelistic writing will know that all things are possible, in an infinite Multiverse." he said. "But it may well be that Nature evolved the human, or at least _humanoid,_ bodily shape because it is the single most practical design for sentient life." He nodded at Sergeant Detritus in a way that took in a smattering of cherubs and dwarfs. "Therefore the human archetype is more rather than less likely to exist on other worlds. We know of this because the Roundworld Project at the University opened up a window into the everyday life of one such world. And latterly, more than just a window. A temporary doorway, through which a total of ten intelligences passed at our last count. If you are looking for little grey men equipped with unseemly _probing devices_, Mr Jameson, you are out of luck. All I can offer you is a current total of three perfectly human males who I am sure have no volition to insert probes of any sort into bodily orifices unwilling to accept them."

Another sweeping glance briefly lingered on Jocasta Wiggs.

"Although I suspect wholly consensual private and personal arrangements may not be ruled out. That, happily, is not my concern."

Sacharissa's pencil was moving at page-burning speed.

"And we get to _meet_ these…. Visitors?" she exclaimed. "How soon can this be arranged?"

Jameson, slightly overtaken by events, looked a little bit confused.**(1)** Most observers would agree this was not hard to acheive.

"Sooner than you may think, miss Cripslock" Vetinari said, genially.

"But first, I will require the use of your brain in a damage-control exercise. Please report to the map-table over there, all three of you, and study the current situation." Vetinari hesitated for a second, and then added "You too, if you please. Lieutenant Holtack. You may have a useful contribution to make here, and it will all go towards earning you capital as a faithful servant of this City."

Vetinari smiled, genially.

"Now, Drumknott. Let us reassure our neighbours. To the Dowager Duchess of Quirm, please clacks the following:…."

* * *

Olga's mind retained only brief impressions of the scramble into daylight. The royal Road petered out into rubble and landfill, and the party had a brief, intensely focused, climb up through the Undercity which terminated in a coaching yard behind an inn in New Ankh.

Aware of movement and signs of unhappiness from inside the icebox, they had loaded everything into a coach pulled by two increasingly nervous and skittish horses and the last mile or so to the Zoo had been done at the gallop. Dashing in through a service gate at the back, they had practically sprinted to the Department of Cryptozoology, where Doctor Berwin and the duty Wizards had speeded then into the cellar room where the other hive artefacts were stored. Noting to her horror how much the Queen had grown in less than an hour, and how she threatened to burst out of her glass egg, Olga had hastened to get her into the middle of an almost-drawn octegram. As she leapt backwards and the Wizards completed the runic inscriptions that closed it down in a shaped field of no-time, she could swear a crack was beginning in the glass…

We'll be safe now" said Berwin.. "Hopefully we can build in a few new safeguards, like this potash stuff, and summon and lock a suitable Guardian in place like we do with the Octavo. But for now she's locked in time. Time hasn't stopped, by the way. It's just proceeding at an infinitesimally shorter rate. Or we'd be replicating the Glass Clock thing by magical means, something people are keen to avoid. I'd reckon one second in there is the equivalent of a thousand years out here."

"Do it." Olga said, hoarsely. "The more you can build into this, the better!"

"Message coming in on the omniscope fragment." a junior wizard reported. "Amplifying…"

It was the Palace, speaking through HEX., on the University's internal net.

"Nice work, Olga!" said Vimes. "Now get back to the Yard fast as you can…. No, that's a non-starter. I'll get somebody to ferry a new broomstick to you, or something, as. I need everyone in the air who's capable of flying. New job on. Over"

"Received, sir" she said. Then she slumped back into a seat and closed her eyes. What was next?

* * *

Vetinari composed and despatched another message.

"Please reassure all foreign embassies, legations and High Commissions in the City, using the following words.

_I remain in control of the city. You will shortly see the crowds beginning to dissipate and return to their homes. Yes, an event has occurred and the news reports have a grain of truth in them. You will, I hope, shortly see extra editions of the Times and the Inquirer out on the streets that will by my express order contain a lot more truth and a lot less speculation. The editors of both publications are with me now, being briefed and agreeing on a form of words. _

_I am also working to ensure there will be no refugee problem and that all peoples misguided enough to take to the roads this morning will have returned to their own homes by midnight tonight. _

_Further bulletins will be issued as necessary._

_Havelock Vetinari, Patrician. _

"Please despatch that message together with the mutually agreed safeguards. Thank you, Drumknott."

Vetinari then turned his attention to the map-tables, where his Army officers were largely in braying disunion. Vimes returned to the group.

"Officer Romanoff and her escort made it to the Zoo, sir. Their cargo is now under very safe storage."

"Capital" said Vetinari.

They bypassed Rust, Selachii, Venturi, Eorle and Omnius, and went to where the Brigadier and Philip Holtack were discussing possible strategies.

"Miss Wiggs reported back to me about a cultural phenomena on Roundworld." Vetinari said. "Where a popular entertainment called "_The War of the Worlds_" got somewhat out of hand. She believes you may have a useful insight."

"Sir." Said Holtack. He then explained about radio, and Orson Welles, and his desire to make a _really memorable_ Halloween night's broadcast.

"He got his wish, I see." Vetinari said, thoughtfully. "Tell me how the lessons of that night may be translated into useful action here, if you please."

"Well, sir. It occurs to me that one useful ally, the first thing we need in dispersing a crowd this size and coaxing people to go back to their own homes…" he paused for a minute. This world ran on _magic,_ didn't it? And one of the primal things humanity has tried to use magic for is…

"Professor Stibbons? Are you busy?" Ponder had been talking about new applications for the omniscope with Captain Carrot and Lord Downey. He took the opportunity to come over to the maps of the city.

"How good are you wizards at rain-making spells?" Holtack asked. "Could you provide a localised medium-to-heavy downpour over the city within the next few hours?"

"Now I begin to perceive." Vetinari said stroking his beard. Nobody likes to stand around getting wet when a nice dry home and a warm fire beckon them. Professor Stibbons, can this be done?"

"Basic magic, sir. Influencing weather and local microclimates… we can do it, sir, yes."

Vetinari noted that Ponder's face had gone into a state of reflective thoughtfulness.

"Contact the university. Get your best men on it. No immediate rush."

"Yes, sir!" Ponder said, rushing off to confer with the HEX-cherub. With Jocasta at his arm to help explain to him what he was seeing, Holtack bent over the map again. The current outer limits of the crowd in the street had been pencilled in . It looked vast. An argument was going on behind and around him that he tried not to completely blank out.

"So where's your all-powerful artillery _**now**__, Mister_ Mountjoy-Standfast?" Lord Rust's braying voice was demanding. "This is the sort of occasion they were designed for, and they're all stuck in barracks and can't move!"

"Now that isn't fair, my Lord" the Brigadier returned, evenly. For the weapons to have been effectual , we would have needed adequate advance warning of a massive illegal assembly, so as to have placed them effectively and conspicuously. This would require sufficient protected space to park the limber and horses and a guaranteed line of retreat should several thousand rioters attack the guns in a mass charge. Block off the route of retreat and the gun and limber, without sufficient infantry support, becomes so much expensive wreckage. We agreed the guns are at their most potent as a visible deterrent, without firing. When you begin shooting with a weapon like that, the subsequent options for peaceful negotiation become miniscule, and an angry mob unable to retreat may consider its only chance lies in rushing us. And even the very best shrapnel may only kill so many with one shot. Weight of numbers would surely prevail, as well as giving an angry mob a very visible grievance!"

"I concur" said Vetinari. "We are agreed the artillery remains in barracks on this occasion. It only takes one frightened officer to order a lit taper engages a fuse, and we have a bloodbath on our hands. And you would do well to listen to Brigadier Mountjoy-Standfast. He learnt this aspect of his trade in the street fighting that accompanied the last real attempt at popular revolution that this city saw. During most of which, I believe _you_, Lord Rust, were incapacitated by blows delivered to your person by rioters."**(2)**

Vetinari noted a faraway grin on the face of Commander Vimes. He smiled.

"Lord Selachii, you are currently Colonel-In Chief of the 35th and 23rd Llamedosian, who have been placed on standby at Spionkoep Barracks. Some of your more senior officers are, regrettably, here. Who is the duty officer of the watch there, and what orders have you given your regiment?"

"Not sure, Havelock!" came the reply, much to Holtack's amazement. _If the Colonel is off base for whatever reason, then surely the very first thing you establish is who's temporarily in charge? It's bloody well elementary, for goodness sake! _

"One of the Captains, I think. It all evens out in the end."

"You're not sure." Vetinari repeated, flatly. "And they are on call to help suppress the street demonstrations, should they go too far."

"It's all dealt with, Havelock" Selachii said, impatiently. "I've sent a clacks for the man's attention. Told him to trust his own judgement and do what he sees fit, which should cover all eventualities."

There was a thoughtful silence. Jocasta and Holtack shared an appalled glance.

"And why is that damn' man eyeballin' me like that?" demanded Selachii, glaring at Holtack.

"The Lieutenant seems worried and anxious." Vetinari observed. "Would you perhaps like to speak freely and openly as to why you appear so alarmed, Lieutenant?"

"Well, sir, that's…" _Be diplomatic. That idiot still out-ranks you by a long way. How would you express an objection to your own Colonel? _"That's a dangerous order, sir. If I were to receive that, I would send it straight back to you asking for clarification." _And I've bought time to prevent a dangerous situation getting far worse. _

"What is there to clarify?" demanded Selachii, who was beginning to go puce. "I've sent you an order, it tells you clearly what's expected, you go off and do something!"

"And what precise objective do you have in mind, sir?" Holtack persisted. He watched Selachii begin to flounder. "What definitely stated task do you wish me, with Regimental strength, to accomplish?"

He waited a second or two longer, and said

"Look, sir. If I were in that Captain's position, you've given me a full Regiment to play with, but no indication at all as to what higher command wants me to do with it. What's the intelligence picture? What am I coming up against? What is the desired outcome and the broad picture? What opposition can I expect? Are there any limits on my discretion to escalate force?

"You are ordering me to go in blind against people presumed to be unarmed civilians. With fully armed soldiers. Even if I give the order that nobody fire unless fired upon, sooner or later some jumpy squaddie is going to hear a round coming his way and he'll fire back. That's inevitable. Then his mates pick up the beat and they start firing. Then _everyone_ is. What then? That's how one of the biggest and most shameful events happened to my Army, that's how we came to gun down unarmed peaceful demonstrators at a stand-off in Ireland. You call this day of your week Octeday. We call it Sunday. And do you really want to give an unfit order that could result in this city having its Bloody Octeday? Sir, I request to you, most sincerely and urgently, that you recall that order!"

Selachii was leaning forward across the map table, face purple, yelling back _"What sort of an Army have you people got when a lowly subaltern can answer back to a Colonel and regimental commander? I have never before seen such insolence! I am putting you under arrest!"_

"I over-rule that order, Charles" Vetinari said, calmly. "My authority is as Patrician and therefore as commander-in-chief of this city's armed forces. And I am also cancelling your order. You've just heard several very pressing reasons why it was _not_ a good order, and could have been a better one in just about every respect."

Vetinari beckoned two Dark Clerks.

"Kindly escort Colonel Selachii to an ante-chamber to contemplate the wisdom of the last few minutes. Provide an appropriate soothing drink, as I fear the heat of the moment has taken him. Re-admit him when he is calm. Thank you."

There was silence as a protesting Selachii was semi-forcibly removed from the room, and Vetinari spoke again.

"Lieutenant Holtack, given the Llamedosian Regiment is here, at the Spionkoep Barracks, just on the New Ankh side of Hubwards Gate. The vast part of the street crowd is here, on a line from Sator Square, through the Cham, the Plaza of Broken Moons, and the Maul. It surrounds the Palace on all three sides and stretches into Filigree Street. The Watch have secured and blocked the Brass Bridge on the Lower Broadway side. As a theoretical exercise, how would you reclaim the streets with a minimum of injury and damage? No great rush."

Holtack considered. He bit back a gulp of apprehension. Hr looked for a familiar face.

"We really need that rain, Ponder! " Holtack called. "And I know you're the man to deliver it!"

Ponder Stibbons grinned and reddened slightly at the confidence placed in him. He lifted a thumb.

"HEX is running through an inventory of all known rain-making spells now, sir" he replied. "Arch-chancellor Ridcully is aware of our need, and he's organising wizards to make the necessary human input. I'd say within the next three quarters of an hour, we'll see the weather turn."

"Capital!" said Vetinari. He turned to the maps again.

"Any ideas. Lieutenant?"

"Well, sir, in my training in these matters it was held to be vitally important not to let street demonstrators gain unchallenged control of the government zone of a city. I would presume this building here is the government quarter? Then it's about time we challenged that control and won back Turnwise and Widdershins Broadway, as well as the open space in front of this Palace. That should be a priority, as it will free you up to move assets by road, as well as demonstrating conclusively who is in charge and who runs this city."

"Go on" Vetinari said, encouragingly.

"And Jocasta tells me every other significant nation state on the... Disc…. has an embassy or a diplomatic legation here. If the usual sort of diplomatic games are played here, sir, then they'll all be watching this Palace closely to see who's in charge. There'll be a lot of diplomatic eyes in that crowd. If they get to see you clearing the space around your own Palace, then there will be no possible doubt who's still in control and they'll report it back."

There was a contemplative silence. Holtack prayed. Had he chanced his arm too much by going into the political side of things? He sensed all eyes on him. Vimes in particular was studying him closely. Lady Sybil gave him a smile and a decisive nod.

"A very valid point." Vetinari agreed, at length. The room collectively exhaled. Holtack continued.

"And then we can proceed to moving people on from the commercial districts here. Jocasta tells me you have your really high-rent shops and businesses along this corridor. They must be screaming at you by now. Time to set their fears at rest, then."

"And what is your plan of action?"

"I'm assuming I have elements of a full regiment here, sir? Then it seems appropriate to take the direct route, down Upper Broadway, in some strength. I'd quite like a regimental band to be present, as they'll be heard before they are seen and this would give a psychological edge. People will hear the music and start wondering."

Holtack was flying now.

If I can stress, sir. The regiment marches _this_ far, and stops, where it can be seen."

He indicated the line where Cunning Artificers intersected Broadway.

"Why here?" Vetinari asked.

"It means their routes of dispersal are not blocked, sir. It should be made as clear as we can make it that they now have a breathing space and adequate, unmolested, avenues available to return to what Jocasta tells me are the main population centres. _Here_ to Dolly Sisters, through _here_ to Dragon's Landing, down _here_ to the Shades , Whopping and the Cattlemarket. The very last thing we should do is block off their escape routes, as the only alternative is to drive them into the river. People will panic, you will have the sort of ugly situation where people get crushed in the race to escape, they believe that's being done as deliberate policy and start to fight back, and then suddenly we're back to square one again. The priority here is not a confrontation or a fight or even containment. It's to allow people time to disperse in an orderly manner, with a minimum of prodding."

"The lad's talking sense, sir," Vimes said, reluctantly. "He's got a good grip of the dynamics, too, I've got to say."

"But we do have to provide the _prod."_ Vetinari reflected. He turned to an Army officer.

"Major Humphries. Do you have any procedural or other objections to following a modified form of the plan proposed by Lieutenant Holtack? As Colonel Selachii is unfortunately _indisposed_, you are now in command of the Llamedosian Regiment."

"None at all, sir" said Humphries, affably. "I'm glad _somebody's_ got an idea, to be honest!"

"Capital. Then clacks the following orders to your Regiment, to be enacted with minimum delay."

The fine print of the operation was agreed and put in writing, then sent to be clacksed across the City.

"And the refugee problem." Vetinari said, cheerfully. "Miss Wiggs, would you care to advise the lieutenant on the maps displaying the bigger picture, as you seem to be delivering faultless support at the moment? Thank you so much. As another theoretical problem, Lieutenant Holtack, imagine that news of an alien invasion so un-nerved many people that they fled from this city upon hearing the news this morning. Also imagine the populations of our neighbouring cities being so unsettled by this that they too fled, hoping for security within our city walls."

"So you have two lots of refugees. Moving on the same few roads. In opposite directions." Holtack mused. "They should have met about now, sir, going by the scale of this map. So it'll be gridlock with nobody capable of moving any further."

"Exactly, lieutenant. How do we coax them to go home again?"

Holtack grinned.

"A similar thing happened on our world, sir…"

"So I have heard."

"We can do it this way, sir. The Press is here and you have its entire attention." Her nodded at deWorde and Jameson. "What sort of aircraft do you have available?"

* * *

Mrs Jacinthe deLabourde of Quirm was fed up. Her two children were cold and hungry and what had felt like a good idea at the time – to escape Quirm before the evil and pitiless space aliens blasted the city to dust – had now receded into the far distance, a long way below the sore feet and the cold and this rain and the hunger that was setting in. And such a press of people that there was no chance of reaching Ankh-Morpork and the safety of its walls, as she had so naively thought!

And apart from one promising multicolour mushroom cloud rising above Ankh, that they had later been forced to admit might have been the magicians or the alchemists getting something wring, there had not even been sight nor sniff of space aliens in any form. She felt subtly cheated. She also felt , come to think of it, now she had time to reflect, rather silly. She had been trying to disentangle her children from the throng to turn about and return to Quirm, alas with no success, why were people so _stupid!_

And then the flying things had come, provoking excitement and fear, but resolving themselves into perfectly everyday witches on broomsticks and Klatchian-piloted magic carpets. And the wondrous winged horses which rumour said were used by Commander Stoneface Vimes' Air Police. Forgetting their hunger, the children had clapped to see them.

And white sheets had spiralled down from above. Jacinthe had not been lucky enough to get one, but the sort of fat man who becomes self-important at times like this had taken it upon himself to read one out.

It was an emergency edition of the Ankh-Morpork Times printed on two sides of broadsheet. Jacinthe relaxed as the fat man read; she could _trust_ the Times.

In essence, the emergency was over. Several travellers in space and time had indeed entered Ankh-Morpork, but by absurd accident, and the ones currently taken prisoner were all unanimous in being very sorry and that they would not do that again. An iconograph on the first page purported to demonstrate how one, a mere boy, had been taken by the Librarian at the University, who was triumphantly holding his captive up by the scruff of the neck. Jacinthe felt sorry for him, almost automatically: such a mere boy could not be a threat, and he appeared as human as she was.

The management of the Times apologised for building the incident up into something far greater than, in retrospect, it needed to be, and trusted that those who had fled Ankh-Morpork would now come home by the quickest possible routes. As an inducement to you, the Army has kindly mobilised its field kitchens, who can be located at these points , on these roads, to provide a nourishing meal to all those returning,

It was noted that to find the field kitchens and hot food, the refugees would have to turn round and start walking back to Ankh-Morpork again.

There was also a note to the effect that the governments of Quiirm, Pseudopolis, Chirm and the Sto States were mobilising their own armed forces to provide hot food and additional support to their own nationals, should they elect to turn round and walk home again.

_Et bien! _decided Jacinthe. "Let's go home, mes enfants. It has been a good adventure". She started off down a suddenly clearer Quirm Road, a child's hand in each of hers.

In the manner of people, small groups stood round debating the newspapers.

Magic carpets were providing a shuttle service to repatriate injuries or exposure cases, with Doctor Lawn (who had flown out pillion on a pegasus) coolly assessing and directing medical teams.

And without a fuss, the Alien Invasion melted into history as people elected to walk home again.

* * *

**(1) **A little explanation. In the 1980's, as the standards of British print journalism were driven even further down, a newspaper called the _**Daily Star**_ was launched that explicitly set out to be lower, cruder, and dirtier than The Sun, hitherto regarded as the market-leader in print squalor. The Star appealed to an even lower common denominator, and its first editor was a Mr Derek Jameson. Known for his lack of intellectuality and his general gruff cockney picture of the world, Jameson still had pride enough to sue a BBC radio comedy programme for libel. This show did a spoof advert for the Star extolling its crudeness and lack of intelligence as a virtue, proudly bosting _The __**Daily Star**__! A newspaper edited by a man who thinks "erudite" is a two-part glue! _Jameson sued for libel at the BBC effectively labelling him thick, dim and stupid….. and lost. Although the BBC recognised something of a talent in him: in an unprecedented second career, Derek Jameson became a BBC Radio Two disc jockey for over ten years, the BBC seeing a virtue in his old-time London cockney voice and mannerism. What he lost in the libel case, he earned back by becoming a genuinely liked and popular radio presenter. There, a happy ending, and you don't often see one of those.

**(2) **See _**Night Watch**_**, **by Terry Pratchett.


	35. Crowd Control

_**Slipping Between Worlds – 35**_

Philip Holtack had not presented his suggestions for approval without a struggle to make himself heard. First, Lord Selachii had exploded in rage and Vetinari had stepped in to have him excluded from deliberation until he had calmed down a bit – well, a lot. Vetinari had also squashed an alarming suggestion that Holtack be arrested - _"I think you will find, Charles, had you been paying attention, that he already has been arrested, tried and acquitted of all charges. I therefore see no reason to go through all that again." _Looking at the number of black-clad Assassins and Dark Clerks about the room, Holtack had also briefly wondered about the nature of the "soothing drink" that had been prescribed for the enraged nobleman. _Terminally _soothing, or just a temporary visit to Happyland? There had been _overtones_ in the Patrician's voice that suggested "permanent" might not be ruled out and indeed might be a preferential state. _Did Machiavelli ever advise the Borgias, or did he come later? _

Noting that Hughes and Ruijterman had been discreetly escorted away by Dark Clerks, he had sighed and returned to the map tables. His suggestion that the Llamedosian Regiment exercise its freedom to march in the city having been accepted, and refinements being made to the fine detail, he was getting a fix on where Ankh-Morpork stood on the larger map in relation to its international neighbours. Jocasta was on hand to answer any questions he needed to ask. He wasn't sure if she'd been invited to these deliberations or not, but he sensed a determined "move me!" attitude about her. Certainly, the other Assassins, the white-haired Downey and the stern-looking Miss Band, seemed quietly supportive and perfectly happy that one of their own had grabbed a chance to be at the centre of things.

The Major from the Llamedosian regiment had joined him, they had shaken hands, and they were affably discussing the fine details. Holtack was relieved that its second-in-command appeared to have a far better finger on the pulse than his colonel; then again, this was probably how the Army had worked in the old days, when the nominal c/o had bought his rank, and just because he'd paid the fabulous cost of the whole thing, assumed that social standing and income conferred an automatic right to lead. You needed some people with goods military brains somewhere in the system, or it would all have gone SNAFU, or even FUBAR, very quickly. He suspected this Ankh-Morpork was at the same stage in its evolution that Britain had once been in – moving from a privately-funded and led army to a more all-professional, state-funded, model . The paradox being that a system of bought commissions and privately-paid mustering had won Britain an Empire (but lost America) and in the next century, had defeated Napoleon, but struggled in Russia. While the last private Army, the corporately funded East India Company, had by its own complacency and neglect nearly lost India in the Mutiny. Holtack decided he'd quite like to read up more on the imperial and political history of this Ankh-Morpork – he'd heard it had once been a great imperial power – to see if its history mirrored that of the British Empire in any way. _Hell, they even had a South Africa once. _He nearly laughed out loud as the inevitable thought struck him, driven by a train of thought – _Hell's Bells! What if they've got an Australia too? _

He sobered up and bent to the task in hand again.

"So we have a column, with the regimental band, marching up the Broadway." the Major said. "I believe four companies and associate elements as discussed will be ample for this. Commander Vimes, it might be beneficial if you could concentrate available Watchmen, together with a citizens' militia drawn from in-house security personnel from the Guilds, here on Filigree Street. By the way, Lieutenant, I do like that analogy you drew with a water-filled balloon. Most illustrative!"

"Sir" said Holtack, who had drawn on his own training and experience in crowd control. He had used Colonel Otway-Williams' picture, that a crowd of demonstrators in the street is like a balloon full of water. Water cannot be compressed. Apply pressure in one place and you displace the mass into other places – you push the water-filled balloon in the middle, and it spreads out where you are not applying pressure. The trick is to apply pressure in _exactly_ the right places, to make the mass of balloon go where you want it to go. When the balloon bursts and spills, if you are doing it properly, you don't even get splashed.

"And my Watchmen, together with, Gods help me, the Jolly Good Pals from the Fool's Guild, the Detention Supervisors from the Teachers' Guild, and such porters and big men as the Assassins' Guild can loan me, begin to march down Filigree Street towards the Palace." Vimes summarised. "At the same time, my lads who are in force on the Brass Bridge pick up and begin to move towards the Palace. They link up with the men coming up Filigree, and quietly and without any fuss, start to herd the people in the streets back towards Widdershins Broadway . The Watch detachment currently blocking Contract Bridge moves forward to support the Filigree Street action, and the Watch detail blocking New Bridge moves across the water to Holofernes and Alchemists, its intention being ultimately to link up with the action in the Broadways, while restoring normal order and management and resolving any problems it encounters. Got that. I also note it leaves a lot of escape routes open on both sides of the Broadways where there will very carefully be _no_ Army or Watch presence, to allow people to get back home to Dolly Sisters and the other population centres."

Vimes glared down at the city map.

"And kick-off time is fifteen minutes after the rain starts. Which allows time for checking everyone's got their orders and all elements are in place. Good. I like that."

"Capital!" said Vetinari. "Doctor Whiteface, Lord Downey, you are agreeable to your Guild internal security personnel temporarily joining the City Militia under the command of Sir Samuel for this operation? Has a message been sent to the Guild of Teachers requesting their co-operation?"

"I am in full agreement, my Lord" the white-faced senior Clown said. "Captain Clapstick and his men will appreciate the experience and the exercise, I'm sure!"

"I have been in touch with the Guild, my Lord." Downey replied. "Miss Sanderson-Reeves assures me she has put together and appropriately armed thirty Guild servants under the command of Mr Maroon, to assist the Watch. Porters, cooks, ostlers, gardener, armourers, weapons technicians. All men who normally perform physical labour."

"But no Assassins!" Vetinari said. "That might be held to be too inflammatory on the city streets. Some of our more class-conscious demonstrators might make something of that. And I am anxious to avoid conflict, as good counsel has urged."

"Indeed, sir" said Downey, smoothly. "I believe this gives you a total of a hundred men, Sir Samuel. Is this sufficient for your needs?"

Vimes thought quickly. He thought of the width of Filigree Street ands the fact he had golems and trolls down there already, as a solid looming threat to the gathered throng to behave itself or else. _Now I've got the luxury of a double rank of men, from one side of the street to the other, with trolls and golems obvious in the front rank…_

"Ample, thank you, Donald! " Vimes replied, affably. Then a detail caught up with him.

"Donald – you say Miss Sanderson-Reeves has _appropriately armed_ your men?"

The Master of Assassins smiled serenely.

"The key word is_ appropriate_, Sir Samuel." he said. "Servants of the Guild charged with the security of Guild premises, but who are not fully licenced Assassins, are legally entitled to carry weapons suitable to their standing. They have been issued clubs, or porters' batons, or failing that, the wooden practice swords used by students. Edged or bladed weapons would be socially inappropriate. I have no doubt they will also have been issued any helmets and other suitable pieces of body armour that fit, and have been provided with practice shields from the Guild armoury."

Vimes nodded. At least accepting a Militia draft of Assassins Guild employees meant he didn't have to open the Watch armoury to them to get them kitted up. They worked for acknowledged caring and considerate employers, after all.

"Now, all we need is rain." said Vetinari, genially. " Professor Stibbons?"

Ponder Stibbons held up a thumb.

"The problem is stopping them, sir! I've advised we work for a light drizzle to begin with, the sort of cold drops that trickle through every opening and makes you feel cold and uncomfortable. Then we step it up to a moderate downpour and hold it there. I _really_ want to make sure the people at the University don't get over-enthusiastic and summon up a hurricane, or anything like that."

"Indeed, Professor" agreed Vetinari, drily. "That would not be advisable!"

* * *

Elsewhere in the City, Gerard McElvroy was moving more-or-less aimlessly with the crowd, the Armalite rifle hidden inside the stolen fisherman's bag. In nondescript clothing appropriate for Northern Ireland, although it was of slightly unfamiliar cut, he did not attract many looks on the street.

Something about his face and demeanour advertised him as a hard man, maybe even a bottle covey. People gave him space, and watching Thieves had worked out the odds of less than six of them bringing him down. Thus he was left unmolested; Thieves tend to go for easier targets of opportunity.

He used the time and space to orientate himself in an unfamiliar city. McElvroy had settled down to the point where he realised he was in all probability still alive. But incredibly, he was still alive on another world somewhere, a long way away from home. And also very probably, there were Brits here, so he had to be on his guard.

Within an hour or so, he had divined that he was in a city called Ankh-Morpork. It was an Octeday, apparently. A little more careful listening had yielded the information that this was the day of rest at the end of the working week, the one that on his world was called Sunday. And they seemed to have an eight-day week here. Right now the city was in not so much of a _panic_ as a _curiosity_ about the coming of aliens from space. Everyone seemed to have turned out in the hope of seeing more of them arrive, or else of capturing the ones who were apparently still at large. _And from the newspaper he'd seen, the captured ones were all in Brit uniform! _

McElvroy briefly considered turning himself in, if only to queer the waters by warning the powers that be here what a bunch of bastards the Brits were and they were best off shooting the lot.

_But no. They got to the people in charge here first. _he thought. _And do they have any idea that I'm here? Best lie low and work the place out._

He followed the flow, closely noting other peoples' transactions with street traders and the sort of prices that were being quoted. He thought of the money he had stolen – well, _raised for the Cause._ It might have been seeming small coin, but it would go a little further than he thought. Even so, he still needed somewhere to stay. He bought an Octeday newspaper from a street seller and found a relatively quiet place to scan the small ads. He very son realised that the cost of renting would be between two and five dollars a week, depending on extras, such as food, laundry, clean sheets, own room. He didn't think he had that much in his pocket. So this would have to come from somewhere.

_No electricity, therefore no burglar alarms. Or in-house security devices like collapsing grille fronts and self-locking doors. There are post boxes in the street, so therefore there must be Post Offices. Where there is a Post Office there is money. And in this bag I have a key that unlocks all safes. And it's not as if you haven't done this before, Gerry my lad. _

Things were looking up. He bought a baked potato from a street seller and accepted his change with a cheery Hergenian grin.

"New in town, then?" the woman at the baked potato stall said.

"I am that, true." he said.

"And you're from Hergen. I can tell. From your accent. So you'll know about the Rainbow's End on Lart Street? Where all the Hergenians in this town seem to go for a drink? They say anyone new to the city from Hergen can get fixed up with a job and a place to live inside five minutes!"

"Is that so…" said Mcelvroy.

"I don't doubt it, luv. There's terrible prejudice against your lot. But you work hard and you're prepared to do the dirty work ours turn their noses up at. That makes you alright by me!"

"I'm thankful to you." McElvroy said. "Which way is Lart Street?"

"Just off Mincing and Cheap." she said, pointing out a direction.

"Hope you get fixed up. Half the respectable boarding houses in this city turn their noses up at Hergenians. So maybe you might do best by your own people. Good luck!"

He thanked her again and walked on, slightly impeded by moving against the press of the crowd. But as he moved into streets where the houses grew slightly larger and less mean, he started to spot boarding houses. They had cards in the window for Vacancies/No Vacancies.

They also had cards in the window saying

_**NO DOGS!**_

_**NO HERGENIANS! **_

_**NO HOWONDALANDIANS! **__**1**__**(1)**_

McElvroy sighed. His father had said that Britain in the 1950's was not a welcoming place for young Irishmen, even though we were needed to build their bloody cities and dig their bloody sewers. The same values applied here, seemingly.

He walked on. Thieves, both licenced and unlicenced, regarded him, spotted _trouble_, and left him alone. One of the more observant Thieves noted both his slightly odd cut of clothing and the long fisherman's bag. The one that very subtly suggested the owner was not using it ti store fishing rods.

He frowned, remembered the urgent briefing that Boggis had sent out to all members, and decided to pass this snippet on when he got back to the Guild. _But those buggers are dangerous. One of 'em killed two Thieves last night…no __**way **__I'm challenging this bloke. Just following. _

He could hear the Rainbow's End even before he got there.

Unaware of his being followed, McElvroy regarded the pub, an otherwise mean little place in the middle of a nondescript terrace. A pub sign showed a rainbow coming to earth, with two little green-clad legs sticking out from one side of the resultant crater, and two little green-clad brown-booted legs sticking out from the other end. A leprechaun hat with a green band had rolled away from the corpse. He grinned.

Loud and familiar music was playing. He grinned again.

Then went in.

* * *

Lord Rust could restrain himself no longer. He had been quietly fuming with Eorle and Venturi, who were shooting angry and jealous looks over to the map table. Then, as if he were the man elected to do it, he stomped over to the planners.

"_Now see here, boy!" _he erupted, every part of him, especially his moustaches, quivering with indignation and rage.

"You breeze in here, you persuade Havelock Vetinari to trust you, and yet we don't know the first dam' thing about you!"

"Is this the time or place, my Lord?" the Major asked, implicitly taking Holtack's side.

Jocasta glared furiously at him. Lord Downey said, mildly,

"My lord, I'm sure you were paying full attention to the preceding five or six hours of debate and questioning? In which we established quite a lot of facts about our guest here, the principal one being he is here by accident, depends on us to get him home again, and thus has neither motive nor reason to wish harm on our city?"

Vimes was more forthright.

"Ronald. If you've got nothing to contribute to sorting out the immediate problem, then you're in the way. In that case, just piss off, will you? The lad might be a bit cocky and self-assured, don't think I haven't noticed _that,_ but he does seem to have more constructive ideas to offer than you've so far come up with."

"This is neither the time nor the place, Lord Rust." Vetinari said, coolly. "Please feel free to join Lord Selachii in the anteroom, if you have a need to take time out from these proceedings."

Rust controlled himself, with an effort.

"Havelock, you have given this young man a place of great trust and responsibility in resolving the current situation. What I, and no doubt others, here, would dearly like to know, is this. _What are his credentials for performing a task of this magnitude? What experience has he had that is in any way relevant to this duty?"_

Ronald Rust nodded in a triumphant way that said "_What do you say to that one, eh? Got you now, laddie!"_

Holtack sighed. Then Jocast leant over and furiously whispered in his ear.

"It can?" he said.

"I believe it can!" Jocasta replied. "After all, Miss Band routinely travels millions of years back in the prehistory of Roundworld and Miss Smith-Rhodes goes back four or five hundred years!"

Holtack grinned.

"HEX" he said. "Can you hear me?"

The gilded cherub turned its head towards him and spoke.

++Hello, Phillip++ Yes, I am listening!++

"Can you travel back to a specific place and time on Roundworld, and display events on the screen?"

++Please provide co-ordinates++ Date, place and time will suffice++

Holtack gave a series of instructions.

Everyone turned to face the wall-screen.

++ Londonderry, Northern Ireland, February 1985++ Hex said.

* * *

The broad square in front of them was filling with civvies. Mainly male, mainly young adults, with some boys and some women and older men. For the moment, the only thing stopping them from forcing a passage through into the commercial and local government area of the city was a thin double line of forty or so Welch Fusilers. Behind them, two police Landrovers were physically blocking the road, with a civvies ambulance in attendance, and an advance party of a couple of officers and ten or so men of the Parachute Regiment who had been sent as an advance guard.

Lieutenant Holtack estimated the other side had mobilised nearly three hundred people. That wasn't good. He was assured back-up from the Regiment and the Paras was on its way, but with other parts of the City flaring up, it might take three quarters of an hour for it to be deployed here.

So far the only reinforcements to have arrived were the Paras, who were a double-edged sword. They were certainly a deterrent to the rioters: but a substantial number of people on the other side would consider a chance to score a hit on one of the most loathed British Army units worth any amount of a beating. Besides, the Paras were all rifle-armed and had no riot gear available. As he'd pointed out to their captain, it might be best if they stayed in reserve for the moment, at least till more shields and batons arrived and could be broken out. They could assist by watching the windows and sky-lines for any evil bastard looking for an easy kill, as the Fusiliers, including himself, had all traded in their weapons in exchange for riot-control kit. If PIRA was out there with guns, they had sitting targets to shoot at. Holtack shuddered at what had happened that bloody Sunday when the Paras had lost it completely and dispersed a demonstration with real live rounds. As a result they were hated, even more so than those Scottish regiments who recruited heavily in Glasgow Rangers' territory, and who displayed openly whose side they were on by wearing Rangers' blue and white scarves on patrol in the Catholic areas.2**(2)**

Holtack was sure that if he allowed the Paras to come forward and be recognised, it would tip the balance and the mob would charge. While he realised retreat was out of the question, he wondered how far the men could withstand anything up to eight to one odds in a fight: his duty, as he saw it, was to delay until reinforcements turned up. And this was his own Seven Platoon who were looking into the mincing machine.

He looked over to the men on the far flank, with the baton round dischargers.

"Loaded up?" he asked them, casually.

"All prepared, sir!" said J.J. Williams. He casually raised and sighted his weapon. A hundred yards or so away, the crowd swirled, trying not to be in line of shot. Holtack grinned. He had four of the weapons at his disposal.

"If a fight starts, wait till I give the order. Don't fire on anyone who's throwing stones, unless you're ordered. Petrol bombers, if you've got a good line of sight, don't wait for my order. Just fire back. Dispersuade them. Stay out of one-on-one combat and get behind the shield wall if it looks as if they're trying to charge you down. They won't be gentle if they get you on your own. Got it? Now smile! It's a nice bit of healthy exercise!"

Holtack walked the length of the shield wall, watching his men, looking at faces that were pale and drawn, others eager and expectant. He offered words of reassurance and ease.

"Dead baby and train smash3**(3)** is on the menu at the Shirt Factory tonight.. of course your're not going to be happy at somebody else getting your share, are you?"

"Depends what the menu's like at the hospital, sir!" somebody offered.

"It'll be _worse_, Jenkins. Have you ever known good hospital food? Anywhere? Good incentive to stay in one piece, then!"

He sensed a movement in the air to his left, and took an unhurried pace to the right. An empty bottle shattered in the street. He felt a piece of broken glass spatter against his leg and bounce off

"Pardoe, are you eager for a fight?"

"Sir?"

"You're standing a full three feet ahead of anybody else. Make it four and I'm arresting you for desertion. Get back into line, you're making it look untidy!"

Holtack paused and supervised as the thin green line straightened itself.

"Just like that bloody film, sir." said Head-butt Powell, thoughtfully.

"Which bloody film?"

"That one that was on TV the other night, sir!"

Somebody in the second rank, Holtack never discovered who, although he suspected it was Fusilier 57 "Heinz" Jones, started singing.

_**Men of Harlech, march to glory,  
Victory is hov'ring o'er ye,**_

"Ah." said Holtack. "**That** film."

More and more voices took up the anthem. Holtack turned to regard the opposition, as men standing alongside him started to beat out the rhythm on their riot shields. Suddenly, he felt proud of his Welshmen, and self-loathing for having even considered they'd go down under weight of numbers. He thought of his collection of miners and steelworkers and farm-boys and the odd Liverpool docker.

And with the unerring Welsh ability to needle an opponent, they were having an effect. The film "Zulu" had been on Ulster Television a night or two before. A lot of the potential rioters out there would have seen it. And they'd know an insult when they heard one. A thin red line of Welsh soldiers holding their own against an overwhelming majority of tribal enemies…

_Good. We're laughing. They're angry. _

_**Bright-eyed freedom stands before ye,  
Hear ye not her call?**_

The first petrol bombs arched over, thrown from well inside the mass of people facing them. They exploded in a mass of flames and broken glass shards, well short of the Army line. Holtack shook his head urgently at the riot gun operators. They held their fire, No clear target.

_**At your sloth she seems to wonder;  
Rend the sluggish bonds asunder,  
Let the war-cry's deaf'ning thunder  
Every foe appall.**_

The beating of riot batons on shields was loud and deliberate now. Holtack noticed the crowd facing them was reluctant to move forward. He took the chance to grab the psychological edge.

_Platoon! Platoon will move forward by two paces! _

The line stepped forward, first by one, then two, full steps.

_Dress the line! See to it, Sergeant! _

This time, a petrol bomb thrower showed himself, so as to get a clear aimed throw. The shotgun crack of a riot gun split the air. Then a second. The yob who had thrown the bomb bowled across the road, as did another. Holtack remembered to step away from the trajectory of the missile. He elected to step forward, allowing it to explode behind and to the left of him. This took him to within fifty feet of the rioters. Shouts and insults and hating faces turned towards him. He grinned and made as if to beckon them forward to a fight. None took up the offer. He shook his head, turned his back on them, and marched back to his own line. This gesture of contempt raised an approving cheer from the Army side.

_**Echoes loudly waking,  
Hill and valley shaking;  
'Till the sound spreads wide around,  
The IRISHMAN's courage breaking;**_

Stones and bricks and the odd petrol bomb were coming thick and fast now. But they still hadn't gathered the nerve to charge.

Holtack wondered where the promised support had got to. He had felt horribly naked turning his back on them. But he had watched his front line, who he could trust to watch his back for him.

"What do you reckon, Sergeant?" he asked. Sergeant Williams grinned.

"We're winning on points, sir!"

He grimaced as a petrol bomb burst, practically on Fusilier Protheroe's shield. The riot shields were big and rectangular, with something of the old Roman legionary about them, and it hadn't been difficult for Protheroe to let his shield take the impct and deflect the explosion away. Rivulets of burning petrol dribbled from the front of the Perspex, but the man seemed otherwise unarmed. The shotgun cracks of the riot guns echoed again.

_**Your foes on every side assailing,  
Forward press with heart unfailing,  
'Till invaders learn with quailing,  
Welshmen never yield!**_

"We've got to do something, sir. Or they'll get their nerve up to charge any moment. And sooner or later one of those petrol bombs is going to hurt somebody."

"You're right. Do we take it to them?"

"I say we take it to them, sir."

"Prepare the men for the order, Sergeant."

Holtack took a deep breath. This was it, then. But his men were miners. Steelworkers. Farm labourers. Now fighting soldiers. And physically fit. Over there, an assortment of Bogside and Shantallow scruffs, painfully thin and out of condition street people on bad diets. Now it was time for the biggest bluff of the lot. He looked over his shoulder. About bleeding time. Two lorries were discharging more soldiers. It looked like eight Platoon. And that was Tim-Endion-Williams. A Captain. A man I can hand over this bloody business to.

But then they were charging the rioters. Some of whom were preparing to fight back. The rest looked consternated and frozen as if they hadn't been expecting this.

_Good._ Thought Holtack. _Take out the ones who show fight. The rest are going to run. _

An unguessable length of time passed which involved fending attacks, and launching his own, using the three feet of sturdy pinewood like a sword, as he had been taught. He concentrated on his own fight, or succession of fights, and only subconsciously noticed the rioters in the street were getting less and less by the moment. Then Tim Endion-Williams had found him as a second wave of Fusiliers followed up the first.

"Enjoying yourself, Holtack the Barbarian?" Tim asked, taking a falling Bogsider by the scruff of the neck and tossing him back towards the clean-up wave coming up behind.

"Bag him and tag him!" he ordered.

"Job satisfaction, sir. You know how it is!" Holtack said, letting his baton-arm droop.

"I think you'd better stop their motor" Tim advised him, grinning. "Or Seven Platoon are going to be halfway to Shantallow smiting all before them!"

Holtack called for Sergeant Williams, reflecting on how easy it is to get an Army unit to charge, and how hard it is to get it to stop again afterwards. It was a good lesson.

But they'd done the job before them, with three minor injuries. On the Fusilier side, that is: they estimated forty incapacitated on the other side, not all of whom would have cared go to hospital afterwards. And incurred a protest from Sinn Fein for using excessive force, which the colonel had scrunched up and binned.

* * *

"Are you answered, Lord Rust?" Holtack asked, (somewhat awed by HEX's abiliities to turn up TV-class pictures of past events on demand), as the thinking machine brought the picture show to a close.

Ronald Rust nodded an imperious "yes", but still quibbled.

Surely those gonne-weapons would have sorted that mob out? Why did you have to go in with - _clubs, _and shields, as if you were common Watchmen?"

"Because in that time and place, my Lord, we _were_ common Watchmen!" Holtack said, firmly. "And nobody was killed!"

"Those bloody firebombs… I've never seen them used on my streets. How easy are they to make?" asked Vimes, thoughtfully.

"An unskilled person could assemble twenty in an hour, Commander." Holtack said. "The ingredients are also very commonly available."

"That really didn't help, lad!"

"I'm sorry, commander. But if you've got old rags, milk bottles and petrol -or other inflammable liquid – they are simple and deadly."

"Angua? Before we go out there on patrol, make a note, would you? If anyone gets the secret of those - _petrol bombbes_, I want their feet not to touch, understood? Same category as gonnes, oneshottes and silver nitrate grenades."

"Sir!" said the blonde sergeant.

Vetinari stepped forward.

"A most informative session, Lieutenant. Which establishes your personal credientials beyond all doubt, I think. Now while you were watching, I took the liberty of ascertaining it is starting to rain outside. Shall we proceed to our stations? Lieutenant, please can you direct your resourceful mind to the second problem, that of the refugees in the countryside? Thank you."

* * *

**(1) ****In Britain in the 1950's and 1960's, before race relations law made it illegal, the tendency was for respectable working peoples' boardinghouses to have posters up that said charming things like **_**"No pets! No Irish! No Blacks!" **_

**(2) **Some explanation. Glasgow in particular, because of its long ties with Northern Ireland, sees Irish sectarianism played out in its two football teams. Glasgow Celtic are the Catholic and Republican side, who tend to the Irish tricolour. Glasgow Rangers are the Protestant and Loyalist side. Occasional issues of collusion have been raised between a very small minority of Scottish soldiers and the Protestant terrorist groups. It was certainly the case that regiments recruiting in Glasgow and the central industrial belt held a high proportion of men who saw it as right and proper to wear Rangers' club favours while patrolling Republican areas, and who would drink in Loyalist pubs and clubs when off duty.

3**(3) **That is, steak and kidney pudding and the trimmings.


	36. Problems Arising

_**Slipping Between Worlds – 36**_

Philip Holtack was getting tired. For the second time, he had not presented his suggestions for approval without a struggle to make himself heard. This time it concerned the humane dispersal of the crowds of would-be refugees who were crowding every road out of Ankh-Morpork and the neighbouring satellite cities. He found it incomprehensible that some of the people tasked with agreeing to a decision that directly affected the welfare of the City's people could be so thick and so insensitive. And so resistant to good practice in dealing with these matters. He'd talk about this later to his reluctant host, Sir Samuel Vimes, one of the handful of people who seemed to have their heads screwed on and set to optimum efficiency. He counted the Brigadier in this smaller number, along with Colonel Wrangle, Commander Vimes, and Major Jeffries, from the Regiment's opposite numbers on this strange and fascinating mirror-world.

And then there was the man at the top, the Patrician, who he suspected could teach a few tricks to Machiavelli. Vetinari seemed like the most efficient puppet-master, dangling several lots of strings all at once, effortlessly delegating other people into doing things his way, for whatever subtle end-goals he had in mind. He commanded respect. Holtack suspected his own strings were now firmly in Vetinari's grasp: encouraged to use his own skills and training in service of this City and to practically demonstrate his conditional loyalties to it, Vetinari would allow him to get on with it and only step in if he had a better idea. He suspected he was being _tested,_ but not just at the superficial _how useful could this young man prove to be? _level.

Reminding himself this wasn't just some sort of theoretical exercise in _deploying military aid to the civil power_ – but fully aware that there was in fact a game umpire in the background watching and taking notes and ready to deliver a frank assessment later – Holtack forced his brain to work.

"There are upwards of fifty thousand people out there, at a conservative guess." he heard himself saying. "Thirty thousand or more have fled… _Ankh-Morpork_… trying to get to a place of perceived safety in one of the smaller cities. On roads that were never built to accept that amount of traffic, they have run head-on into about an equivalent number of people with exactly the same idea in mind, only they have fled from…" he stumbled over the unfamiliar names – "Quirm. Sto Lat. Pseudopolis. Sto Helig. Chirm. And this flood in the opposite direction is trying to get to Ankh-Morpork. Result – gridlock on the roads. They can't go any further out, and the only clear roads are the ones back to their city of origin. The question is how we persuade them to turn right round and use those roads and get home again."

"At least the wizards have called down some rain." Major Jeffries observed. "That'll help."

"Up to a point." Vimes said, thoughtfully. "In the city, it's our ally. It'll drive the majority of the people out on the streets back to homes that are five or ten minutes walk away. Air reports say it's already cleared two-thirds of the people out of Hide Park. But out in the country…"

Vimes left the thought uncompleted. Holtack pondered the situation. _Fifty or sixty thousand people… all between fifteen and twenty-five miles away from home… cold, tired, hungry and now wet. A lot of women and children among them…_

A memory from military history classes surfaced.

"Commander Vimes, this city has a public transport system? I heard you mention it a while ago. Can you describe them for me?"

"Horse-drawn, usually by knackered out cheap old jades. Capable of pulling forty-five people seated. Although there's a bright spark experimenting with double-deckers that can carry ninety. Bit top-heavy, to my mind."

"How many does the city own?"

Vimes snorted.

"The city owns none! There are maybe sixty, seventy tops, that do the main routes, but they're all privately owned."

"That's a start" Holtack said, reflectively. " If this is a public order emergency, surely the city government would be justified in requisitioning the available fleet and sending them out to pick up the refugees? Priority given to women, children and the elderly?"

Vetinari looked at him.

"You do realise Mr Soulter and Madame Glugg**(1)**, who own the city's omnibuses as a private company, would not be too pleased at any hint of _nationalisation _or _requisition_ and would , in the vernacular, scream blue murder?"

Holtack smiled.

"I hardly see how they could object, sir, if the requisition request were to be backed by a squad of Watchmen or perhaps armed soldiers…."

"I'll see to it!" Vimes said, hurriedly. "The less armed soldiers on MY streets, the better!"

"I don't blame you" Holtack said, sincerely. "We're really not very nice people".

Vetinari considered, then nodded, A thin smile crossed his face.

"Do it" he said. "By the time the streets clear enough to allow vehicles to move, I expect the omnibuses to be moving out on all the main roads. I shall deal _personally_ with any complaint from Mr Soulter or Mistress Glugg. And human nature being what it is, I would suggest a military or Watch escort go out with each omnibus to ensure _only_ the women and children get to travel in them. Cost-free."

Holtack nodded; he'd heard from men who'd gone out on United Nations missions that similar transport offered to refugees, partly for humanitarian reasons and mainly to get them moving faster into the camps, ran the risk of locally employed drivers and their mates demanding payment for the ride in one form or another. This had got so blatant in one part of Africa that armed British patrols had to escort the drivers and remind them, sometimes at gunpoint, they were already being paid by the UN and this was a free service to the users. An armed British presence had also deterred local militias from regarding UN lorries as a free addition to their MT pools. _So yet again, Vetinari is on the ball. _

He let the thought extend outwards a little.

"Sir, this is only one strand of a three-point plan." he reminded Vetinari. There are at least four Army regiments billeted in or nearby to this city. Can I assume they all have field-kitchens, a complement of cooks, and adequate stores?"

He explained the next stage of the plan. Lord Rust bellowed with rage.

"Are you tellin' _me_ that I should detach my cooks, my field-kitchens _and_ the stores which _I_ paid for, just to mollycoddle a bunch of damnfool civilians who should have stayed at home and not let themselves be spooked? I've no sympathy for 'em!"

"No, sir. I'm merely _suggesting_. I don't have authority to _tell_."

He looked over to Vetinari again.

"Sir, the promise of some sort of hot meal – provided they turn round and start walking home again – should act as an incentive to get people returning to their homes from the country. I would suggest deploying all available field kitchens roughly halfway between the current location of the refugees, and the City gates. That way, they have to start walking home to find a square meal waiting for them. I'm not suggesting anything elaborate, just perhaps a bowl of soup and a couple of bread rolls each. After they've eaten and rested, the only way then is home."

"But why feed 'em at all, man! Do you think we're some kind of…some kind of…. " Rust exploded, "_Welfare state_?"

Holtack sighed. Why was the man such a classic idiot? He wouldn't be out of place as a High Tory peer in the House of Lords…

"Several reasons, colonel." Holtack explained, patiently.

"One, to get them moving in the right direction. Two, because it's the right thing to do. Three, because well-fed people are better able to cover a thirty mile hike, fifteen out and fifteen back. Four. Jocasta tells me all your cabbage and potato fields are out there. These are the staple crops that are meant to feed a city of over a million people. If we _don't _feed them, they are going to plunder those fields. Meaning further on down the line, you are going to see food shortages and price rises. In staple foodstuffs. This is not good for you, as a government."

Vetinari nodded again.

"A masterly summation. I concur. Mobilise your cooks and kitchens, gentlemen. On _my_ orders. Oh, Lord Rust? I would be obliged if you did _not_ see it as an opportunity to rid yourself of foodstuffs currently in your battalion stores which I believe were inspected and condemned as unfit for human consumption. I'm _sure_ orders were given for their destruction and replacement? Your men will pass several food warehouses in New Ankh on the way out of the city. Drumknott here will provide authorisations to requisition. And I would also advise you to have your field kitchens placed under armed guard. Human nature, regretfully, being what it is, as I'm sure Lieutenant Holtack has experienced."

Vetinari watched as the army officers went, largely grumbling and ill-tempered, to issue the relevant orders.

He looked to Holtack.

"And the third point of your strategy is?"

Holtack looked around for the Press contingent.

"Well, sir, all this will be no good if we don't publicise it. I suggest an extra edition of the papers, perhaps a free sheet for distribution to the people out there? For their interest and information?"

"Proceed!" said Vetinari.

"And I'm told you have aircraft? Perhaps these can be used to drop the papers to the people?"

Vetinari smiled. "Assuredly, lieutenant. We have - _aircraft_ - at our disposal. Perhaps you might like a flight on one?"

Something about Vetinari's smile left Holtack wondering if he was very soon going to be sliding up the next level of the learning curve; it was not a comforting thought.

* * *

It had started to rain over Hide Park. Williams and Powell, from their lair in thr dense shrubbery, had watched as the sky greyed and rainclouds rolled in from seemingly nowhere on what had previously been a dry warm sunny day. Consequently, the crowds had thinned out and the mas of people had in the main disappeared, only a few diehards holdingf on in the dwindling expectation of seeing the spacepeople descend in glory. Even the sausage-inna-bun salesman had moved on.

"Weather changes fast around here, dunnit?" Powell remarked, conversationally, as they worked hard on bundling the essential kit, the changes of clothes, the food supply, and the all-important rifles, in between two groundsheets and in between their bodies, so as to keep it dry.

"Well, if we wait it out a while, we can borrow that parkie's hut again." said Williams, thoughtfully. "Light his brazier, do a wet. We ain't seen him since he went off with a face like Prestatyn on a wet Sunday. No sign of him coming back with any of the _hedd_ yet."

"From what we seen, the coppers have got a lot on their plate today" said Powell. "They'll not bother too much about a narky parkie claiming his shed's been broke into."

Stoically, they hunched up against the rain, waiting for the moment to get warm and dry.

* * *

Sergeant Davies waited with other NCO's of the Llamedosian Regiment for the duty Captain, the most senior rank in the barracks, to come to them with the orders that had just been transmitted in on the semaphore system. Davies had watched it clanking and shuddering as it relayed a message from deeper inside the city. He understood that in the absence of radio, it was probably the most efficient way of relaying an order from HQ, but it seemed _slow._

_If it's the best this world has got, their slow is probably pretty fast. That don't matter so much next to __**accurate**_, he reminded himself.

And then he blinked again as a dot in the sky resolved itself into a human figure. Riding a broomstick. It spiralled down , growing closer, until he could see it was a young woman, in a pointy hat.

_This world runs on magic. Remember? That's probably as near as they have to an Air Force. _

The woman leapt off the stick, grabbing and running with it, calling for the senior officer. She identified herself as a despatch rider from the Palace with written and sealed orders to confirm the movement of troops the Patrician was requesting.

And then the Captain was calling for all lieutenants and senior NCO's to join him for a briefing. Williams tagged along, obediently.

* * *

Fusilier Hughes posed, very reluctantly, for the photograph – iconograph? – that was to go into the newspaper to be dropped to the refugees. It re-enacted the moment he was caught by the Librarian the previous evening, and involved the grinning orang-utan lifting him effortlessly up by the back of his collar, his rifle dropping to the ground. Holtack had talked him into it, pointing out that if we're seen as harmless, that's going to be better for our long-term survival. If people see us as a threat, they'll want to lynch us, and we're going to have to live in this city for an indefinite length off time. Better they grin and have a laugh, don't you think?

Hughes had reluctantly agreed, even more reluctantly allowing himself to be hoisted up by the ape with his feet dangling off the ground. A fussy little photographer with a German accent had taken the picture, set against a backdrop of the Patrician's bookcases – _duw,_ the man with the camera looked like something out of the Munsters or the Addams Family - and it had been whisked away for printing.

And then Mr Holtack had been taken off by the head peeler and the grey-haired man in black, with that pretty little girl who'd adopted him tagging along, and that only left himself and the Boer. But under light guard, and with a very nice pot of tea brought to them. So that was alright, then.

* * *

Gerard MacElroy had found , against all hope, a home from home in the Rainbow's End. People were singing old songs about the struggle for freedom from the hated Morporkian, the _craic_ was all about where the jobs were – apparently a Cathedral was being built that needed all trades and was recruiting – and they even served a familiar black porter that put him in mind of Guinness or Gillespie's. What more could a fella ask for?

Somebody who had _foreman_ written all over him was scrutinising McElroy intently. Finally he said

"New lad in town? Thought so. Got any skills?"

"Chippying. Some bricklaying. Some roofing." he replied. The ganger nodded.

"Anywhere to stay?"

"Not yet."

"Go round to Biddy Scanlon's on Three Bells Lane. Tell her Shamie Larey sent you, and that's good for a night's credit. Tomorrow, get round to the Temple of Anoia site on God Street and I'll give you a try-out. We pay by the day. You look a handy lad, and I'm short and the job's behind."

"Obliged to you, mr Larey."

"Well, you can show gratitude and fill this glass, so you can. You're a Derry boy, from your accent?"

Apparently there was a Derry in this faraway Hergen place, too.

_Oh…. Macnamara walking home, after a pint, or two or three; _

_An innocent man, the Watch took him,_

_And did treat him brutally! _

'_Twas murdered by the fuzz he was, 'twas murdered by the fuzz…_

MacElroy let the song wash over him, and joined in with the chorus when he felt he'd got the hang of it.

_People who are to all intents and purposes Irish. A place to stay. A job to go to. Lie low. Sniff the breeze. Watch and wait. You still have a rifle and six rounds. And there are anything up to six legitimate targets in this city. Things are on the up, Gerry! _

And then a youth rushed in, loudly shouting that the bloody Watch and the Army are repressing the demonstration up outside the Palace… _They're using trolls and golems! _

MacElroy thought he'd go and see what was happening. He had a few useful skills he could teach these people. On general principles. Solidarity. The situation called for it.

* * *

_How the Hell is it staying up!_

It was Holtack's first experience of a flying carpet. It was unsettling, to say the least. He'd flown in airliners, in unpressurised and cold Hercules transport-planes that rattled and shook and magnified the noise of four immense propellers, and he was a veteran of Army helicopter pilots' sudden unannounced suicide drops onto the base landing pads in South Armagh.**(2)** But he'd never flown on a quarter of an inch of what felt like shagpile Axminster, knowing it was all there was between him and a long plummet to his doom. Goodness knew, he'd felt nervous about an eighth of an inch of aluminium, or whatever it was, in the hull of an airliner…

"Best Kilminster carpet, offendi!" said the Arab-looking pilot (well_, that_ fitted)

"Kilminster?" asked Holtack, weakly.

"Unfortunately a very loud and repetitive pattern, offendi." said the pilot. "It tends to vibrate at low speeds when we hit turbulence."**(3).**

He looked shrewdly at holtack.

"First flight, offendi?"

He nodded, trying not to look apprehensive. He was also trying not to look down, and was discreetly leaning on a couple of bales of newspapers they were to drop. Jocasta was with them, seemingly enjoying herself immensely, and a Watchman provided the reason why Joe le Tahksi's assistance had been so easily given: it was this or face trial for dangerous flying and damage to Watch property, to wit, one broomstick. He had also been advised to keep well clear of the Watch witch who had been flying that broomstick at the time of the collision.

Needing no further persuasion, Joe had jumped at the chance to volunteer and help the Watch. As the accompanying Watchman, Constable Haddock, had phrased it_ Mr Vimes isn't unreasonable, Joe. He knows you like working at heights. He'd have pulled strings to get you a top-floor cell at the Tanty so as you feel at home. _

So no. Joe had seen no alternative to helping the Watch with their enquiries.

"Nobody falls off, offendi!" he reassured Holtack, happily. "There's a shaped magical field, sort of thing, that prevents that. I can loop the loop, if you like?"

"Er… thanks, but I'll pass. How does it, you know, work?"

Joe le Tahksi laughed.

"If I knew, offendi, I'd be a wizard! Just sit tight and I'll turn it off when we get to the drop zone. Then you'd better not fall over with the newspapers!"

Holtack concentrated on weighing up the country from the air, as he'd been taught. _You can never know too much about the surrounding countryside. _He recognised the twists and turns of the river Ankh from the maps he'd been studying. They were vaguely familiar from somewhere. From here, he could make out the city wall from above, and the outer suburbs, at first densely packed and then spreading out and faltering into the countryside. Soon there were less and less houses and more and more flat green fields. They saw a convoy of wagons on their way out, escorted by marching soldiers: the first of the field kitchens. Then they caught up with the milling mass of bodies, who were making the best of it, but looking confused and uncertain.

Dropping in ten seconds" said Joe. Switching off magical field – now. Try not to fall off, I'm in enough bother with the Watch as it is. Approaching drop zone… Three. Two . One. _**Drop**_!"

Haddock, Holtack and Jocasta had been busy cutting the binder twine securing the bundles of newspapers, a mix of copies of the _**Times**_ and the _**Inquirer**_. Looking down as they threw or kicked their bundles off the carpet, they were reassured to see them break up into hundreds of single billowing sheets that spread, like snowdrops, over the heads of the people below. Joe switched the retaining field back on, and they performed a long slow loop, banking around the field, to see the newspapers were being eagerly pounced on and read.

"Right. Back home, I think!" said Joe, and he steered to the Turnwise and back to the City. Holtack slumped with relief. Jocasta smiled at him.

* * *

Regimental Sergeant-Major Dickens saluted the worried young captain.

"Permission to speak, sir? If I may, I'd like to introduce a new arrival to you. This is Sergeant Williams, just posted here. He's an expert in crowd control and dispersing disorderly civilians, sent here to instruct us in controlling civil disturbances, so he could be just the man we need at this moment in time. Sir!"

Williams stepped forward and saluted. He was experienced enough to notice that what Dickens was doing was a skilled form of Rupert-management, the sergeant's art of steering an inexperienced young officer in the correct direction and ensuring he did the right thing. The young Captain certainly seemed relieved, as if the magic words "expert" and "instructor" had taken a burden off his shoulders.

"Glad to have you on the strength, Sergeant" the captain said. "Now you've heard the orders sent to us from the Palace. "I've instructed the BQMS and the Cook-Sergeant to muster the field kitchens and take them out into the country, as directed. I hear there's going to be a lot of hungry people out there who need directing!"

"And send two platoons of infantry with them, if you please, sir." said Williams. "If a thousand hungry people rush forwards at once, not even the biggest gyppo-sergeant is going to be sable to hold them off for very long with a ladle."

"Good point, sergeant. Send Ten and Eleven platoons, mr Dickens? Good. Now, the order of march into the city, sergeant. I can see the sense of sending the band…"

"But not in front, sir. Too vulnerable. In fact, I see you have got normal human infantry leading the march. Can we change that, so as your trolls are in front? I'm guessing they'll scare people. If there are any barricades, I'm willing to bet those boys will walk through them without even noticing. And I want the men going in to have left their weapons at home.

The captain raised an eyebrow.

"It's like this, sir." Williams said, patiently. "Sergeants should still carry their pikes. That's part of the uniform. But have men going in there with loaded ri…_crossbows_, then _somebody's_ going to be tempted to use it. And we aren't here to pile up bodies. We're here to persuade the people out there to disperse and go home peacefully. Do you have anything like long batons? Pickaxe handles? We can issue those to the men. Some sort of shield would be nice, too. And one company of men, held in reserve, normally armed, in case anyone on the other side starts shooting bu…_arrows_ at us. And can I recommend, sir, those tall hats are left behind? Too easily knocked off, damaged or stolen in a fight."

The captain listened, and then started giving orders. And then the regiment started to march, led by a double line of Army trolls stretching all the way across Broad Way. The band followed, then two companies of men who had been hastily issued steel helmets, shields and pickaxe handles from stores. Some of the helmets were still quite rusty and many had been borrowed from the other regiments in the barracks.

And from the bridges, the Watchmen heard the approaching band and started to apply pressure on the mob. Down Filigree Street, the hastily assembled Guild militia and the watchmen there started to apply pressure. And the crowd started to give way, crumbling at the edges into a steady trickle of people finding empty streets that would lead them Home.

So far, the plan was working.

* * *

Gerard McElroy ran into the street with a group of young bloods, disaffected late teenagers, Morporkian–born to Hergenian parents. A stream of people ran past them on the way back to Clay Street.

"You're running? In front of the peelers and the army?" McElroy said, indignantly.

"They're using _trolls!_" said one man. "And worse nor trolls, _golems_. You mean to say _you _wouldn't run?"

McElroy looked to the street gang who had acquired him as an advisor. They were Morporkians in accent, upbringing, attitude, and general street-smarts. But they all had names like Kelly, Murphy, Maguire, MacAllister, and were disaffected that the anti-Hergenian prejudice applied to their parents was aimed at them too. They had taken solace in tribal myths and tales of old injury, and their resentment surfaced in occasional attacks on unwary Watchmen and off-duty soldiers who strayed into the wrong parts of town. They called themselves the Wild Geas, because, well, you've _got_ to, haven't you?

They looked expectantly at the newly-arrived hard man, who had picked up an empty milk bottle and was weighing it in his hand, thoughtfully. Finally he spoke.

"What have you got that's liquid and burns?" he asked. "And I'll want a lot more empty bottles and some old rags."

* * *

And as the crowd dispersed, Sergeant Craig-y-Don of the Army and Sergeant Detritus of the Watch met and traded punches. Each troll rocked back on his feet, then, greetings having been exchanged, they grinned at each other.

"Ruby say it long time since she saw you and Chelcedony." Detritus said, conversationally. "Why you both not come to dinner one night?"

"My 'Chel, she be delighted!" said Craig-y-don. "All going peacefully so far, isn't it?"

"Funny thing, trouble. It never around when we peace-loving trolls arrive." agreed Detritus. He and the Army troll were old colleagues, having worked out between themselves where the duties of military police ended and civilian Watch began. And Sergeant Craig-y-Don had visited the Yard often enough, to collect any Army trolls arrested for disorderly conduct after one molten sulphur too many. They had an Arrangement. Vimes approved of this, as it saved paperwork.

The two trolls looked round a rapidly clearing square, and shook hands. Army and Watch squads were reforming for the next stage of the prod, out through the Cham, the Maul, and Sator Square, minor resistance was being dealt with by a line of soldiers advancing behind shields and waving batons threateningly. Commander Vimes and Sergeant Angua were busy in discussions with an Army captain and a couple of senior NCO's. From somewhere, a brass band was playing _Men of Pant-y-Girdl. _In the air, a magic carpet was returning to the roof of the Patrician's Palace, the strict no-fly rule having been temporarily relaxed.

And then a group of flaming stars appeared in the sky, growing larger and nearer as they rose over the heads of one of the last groups of demonstrators. Watchmen, not understanding what they were seeing, stopped and turned their heads to observe.

And the luckless Constable Millward became the first policeman to be hit by a petrol bomb in the history of Disc policing.

* * *

As the last people left Hide Park in the steady drizzling rain, Powell and Williams gathered their kit and made their way to the parkie's hut. Gratefully, they lit the stove and started a brew and a scoff, hanging wet clothes up to dry.

"Thanks'" said Powell, accepting a mug of hot sweet tea. The two men looked at each other, all elation gone, feeling tired. The unspoken question hanging in the air was _How long can we keep this up? We're a long way from home in an unfamiliar place. Who do we give ourselves up to? And can we trust them? _

He felt his eyes drooping and a need to sleep.

And then the door burst open.

"Gotcha!" screamed Senior Park-Keeper Flowerdew. "Told you, didn'I, your time wasn't going to be wasted… Got 'em red handed!"

Powell, jerking awake, noted there were actually flecks of foam at the corners of the little man's mouth. Williams had retreated into the shadows behind the door as the parkie stomped in, his eyes only on Powell, followed by one the local policemen.

"Calm it down, mun." Powell said. "I see you has the local constabulary with you!"

The Watchman looked nervously at Powell, taking in the uniform and the villainous grin. Powell looked back over at his… _grey?_ skin, which even in the failing daylight had a sickly greenish tinge to it. There was also a new smell in the air, of formaldehyde mixed with a _taint _that didn't smell none too fresh. And those _eyes_, dark and sunken, tinged with red…

"I'll take over now, mr Flowerdew, if you don't mind? Yes, you _were_ right. And I have a feeling this is bigger than you think."

The voice was sepulchral, sounding as if it was coming from a chest cavity that was emptier than it looked, as if some other means than mere breathing was necessary to drive air past vocal chords that sounded stretched and in need of replacement.

The grey-skinned policeman got between Flowerdew and Powell, and he said

"You _do_ know we've already pulled in some of your people? The Patrician's interviewed them and decided you're no threat to the city. They've been treated fairly and well and found places to stay."

Powell nodded, imperceptibly.

"Look, you're best of coming in with me. Mr Vimes treated the other three of you well."

Powell nodded again. Fusilier Williams stepped behind Flowerdew and closed the shed door. As Reg Shoe turned, he looked down the muzzle of a riot control gun.

Flowerdew said, impatiently

"Go on then, arrest him! That's what you're here for, isn't it?"

"There are two of them now." Reg said. "And this one's got a gonne. I've seen what they can do".

"Well? It can't kill _you_, man!"

"No?" replied Reg Shoe. "But it can _inconvenience_ me. Size of the hole those things make!"

Flowedew screamed and leapt for Williams. Who lifted the gun barrel, and rapped it down hard on the hapless park-keeper's head. He dropped like a brick, and was still.

"Got to conserve rounds, mun" said Williams, apologetically. "Only got eight left!"

Powell took a deep breath.

"OK, constable. Pull up a chair. Let's talk. But for now, nobody's going anywhere. Cup of tea?"

Reg shook his head.

"Don't drink, sir. I _really_ don't drink." But he took up a spare chair, and sat passively while Powell took his sword and truncheon. He could have used the raw strength of the Zombie to turn the tables: but Reg would have felt a lot happier doing that if one of those scary _gonnes_ wasn't being pointed at him by the other alien, who had appraised himself that Flowerdew was still breathing. It wouldn't kill him, he knew, but a massive hole in his chest couldn't easily be patched, despite all the hints Igor had been dropping about replacement of worn-out parts.

"Look, I've got to say I'll be missed if I don't report back to the Watch-house in the next hour or two. They'll send people out to look for me. Why not come back with me? You'll be well treated." Reg said, placidly.

"No offence, copper, but right now you is a hostage. A bargaining counter, till I knows better." replied Powell. He sniffed the air. "And what is that smell? _Duw_, it honks worse than a prop-forward's jockstrap!"

"Ah, personal comments now" muttered Reg. "Look, I've got a pack of cards here. We can pass the time till the Watch send out a search party for me?"

Powell nodded. He was beginning to think there was something _strange_ about this copper…

* * *

**(1) Oooh, topical, satire! **As Ben Elton would have said. In Britain, the Stagecoach bus company was created by gobbling up formerly public-owned local assets – buses and local railways – and operating them for private profit. Mr Souter and Ms Glaog, the founders, are now multi-millionaires and believe in shareholder profit first, public service second. Their company has a near-monopoly in many British cities, including South Manchester, and goes to pretty shady extremes to maintain its grip of the most profitable routes. Think of Reacher Gilt operating public transport…

In the First World War, when the Germans got to within twelve miles of Paris, the French authorities requisitioned all buses and taxis to get their soldiers to the Front quickly. The British copied the idea by requisitioning London buses – and conscripting their drivers – to serve as troop-transports.

**(2) **_They_ claimed that the shortest possible descent into Crossmaglen minimised the amount of time their helicopters were potential targets for ground fire. As the sudden near-vertical dive to the helipad usually shook the contents of the cargo hold (what pilots call _self-loading cargo_, or a section of fully equipped combat infantrymen)into a sort of combat-dressed stew, Holtack suspected they did it deliberately out of schadenfreude.

**(3). **OK. Hands raised. A very bad pun on "_Axministe_r", which is a type of carpet. Lemmy Kilminster, formerly of space-rockers Hawkwind and founder bass-player with unsubtly loud rockers Motorhead.


	37. a Bed and a Bath

_**Slipping Between Worlds – 37**_

Philip Holtack was pleased to be able to recognise the line of Broad Way and the Patrician's Palace from the air. He could also see the sense of having a "no flying" rule above the Palace: flying straight and true down the Broad Way with the bulk of the palace getting ever closer, it felt as if he was on a bombing run. It would be just too easy…_ on a magic carpet, I suppose you'd just have a couple of barrels of gunpowder, or something, light the fuses, and tip them over the side. But, mother of invention and all that, if magic powers the aircraft, what sort of anti-aircraft magic would they use in place of a ground to air missile? _

As the carpet powered down towards the flat roof of the Palace that served as a makeshift helipad, he got a first-class view of the Army and Watch clearing the square in front of the palace.

_Somebody down there's been thinking. They've equipped those red-jacketed squaddies with helmets and shields and batons and kept them in line. That even looks like a snatch-squad, ready to go…_

It all looked oddly familiar.

He even recognised a couple of very obvious sergeants, standing aloof from the infantry lines, red sashes over their jackets, holding the long pikes that Holtack had seen in military museums and heard descriptions of, but had never seen used in action. He recalled that in Napoleonic times, in those diabolical stand-up-and-shoot-at-each-other-at –fifty-paces encounters, the sergeants had stood behind the infantry lines, using their pikes to prod and cajole reluctant soldiers into standing there and taking it until the enemy broke first. And that pike, in 1815, was the sole survivor of a time two hundred years earlier where every man had been pike-armed, and warfare had been the _press of pikes_, two bodies of armed men running at each other like enraged and lethal hedgehogs…

_But those tactics look just like twentieth century Northern Ireland, _he reflected. A thought was scratching at the back of his mind, like a cat at the kitchen door mewling for admittance.

_Sergeant Williams? _

And then, as they came into land on the roof, the first wave of petrol bombs arched over. Holtack saw one of the sergeants start with surprise, then bellow at his snatch squad to get a bloody move on and go in and grab somebody!

The voice had a familiar ring of command to it… and then, to his horror, it occurred to him that nobody else on this world would know to get out of the way… even as Constable Millward was suddenly enveloped in fire and flame, he was shouting to Joe Le Tahksi to get him down to ground level, right now, over there where the command post seems to be, where Commander Vimes is.

Jocasta plucked urgently at his arm.

"_Put my cloak on!"_ she shouted. "Your uniform is too distinctive!"

He remembered the front page of a newspaper he'd seen, where the artist had made a very good attempt at DP battledress and the caption had proclaimed that this was alien uniform. He took the borrowed cloak with thanks, and pulled it closely round himself. Then he was running to join Vimes, who was shouting orders. He couldn't see the Army sergeant anywhere.

Vimes had been present while HEX had re-run a Northern Irish riot for their education. Even so, he saw the glowing sparks in the sky before recognising where he'd seen them before. He was running, yelling at people _not to just bloody well stand there, move! _But he was too far away and moving too slowly, his words largely lost in the clamour all around.

He screamed the sort of word Sybil would have been _very _disapproving of, as he realised he was going to be too late. As a curious Millward looked up, wondering what the hell it was, then only belatedly appeared to realise it was some sort of flaming missile, he lifted his shield just too late…

…and the firebomb exploded at his feet, sending a shower of blazing liquid and red-hot glass shards upwards with some force, the blazing molten liquid sizzling slightly in the drizzling cold rain, but not going out...

He screamed, hit the ground, and rolled in agony. Vimes, Carrot, and at the rear, Philip Holtack, were converging on him.

Carrot was first there, taking his cloak off and using it to suffocate the fire that had travelled to Millward's clothing. The sticken Watchman shuddered and screamed at the touch. His bare legs were alternately burnt raw and streaming blood from a dozen glass-strikes.

"These are your _petrol bombbes_, are they?" Vimes said, coldly.

"I'm afraid so." said Holtack. "Which means there's a petrol bomber out there somewhere."

Vimes nodded down.

"Get him to an Igor. Quickly." he directed.

Holtack watched two of the huge lumbering trolls storming into the residual crowd, those luckless enough to be in the way being picked up and hurled aside. _Those things can certainly move when they're angry! _

He recognised one as the police-troll Detritus. The other, bizarrely, also had three stripes carved into each arm, and was painted red above the waist and blue below it. He blinked.

Another petrol bomb arched out of the crowd and hit the leading troll full on the chest. There was a fiery explosion. Detritus barely blinked, slapping out the flames, and altering his rush in the direction from which the bomb had come.

"_Dat scorch dis troll's hide. Dat like sunburn to a human – but it make me angry_!" he bellowed. Holtack noticed there was another sort of troll that was lumbering forward, as if in back-up. He'd glimpsed one of those in the police station: the smoother-bodied, terracotta red trolls with the fiery red eyes, as if they had been made from flowerpots.

"Constable Shtetl! Constable Dorfl! Fall back! This is an order!" the red-haired Captain Carrot yelled, a sense of urgency in his voice. The two flowerpot trolls retreated, acknowledging the order.

"Aren't they just the sort of officers we need up front right now, Carrot?" Vimes inquired, as a passing Igor who had volunteered his assistance supervised the evacuation of Millward.

"Yes and no, sir" said Carrot. "Yes, because there's nobody for making a snatch-arrest like a golem. "No, absolutely not, because it's raining and they're throwing fire-bombs."

Vimes looked blank for a second. Carrot diplomatically prodded him.

"The Post Office fire, sir? The death of the golem Anghammarad? The only thing that can kill a golem? Cold water and fire, sir?"

Vimes grimaced and made the palm-forehead-slap gesture.

"You're absolutely right, Carrot. I agree we can't risk the golems. And we don't want to give those little sods out there a lesson in killing one. Seems to me they've learnt enough today, from a master."

He looked at Holtack. It was not a sympathetic look.

"I'm sorry about your officer, Commander." he said, awkwardly.

"Well, yes. Just as it happens, so am I!" Vimes retorted.

Holtack grimaced. _Crass remark, Philip. _

"MacElroy's out there. Only he could have passed _that_ skill on."

"It would appear so. Carrot, put the word out. Male, IC1, middle thirties. Dark haired. Sallow face. We'll circulate the picture from HEX later. Look of a bottle covey about his eyes. Hergenian accent. I want him _nicked_."

"He very possibly has access to a _gonne,_ Commander." Holtack said, diffidently. "And he's a hard man. Thug, bully, killer. You can back him against a wall with ten men and he'll still try to fight his way out. He's thirty-six and he's done a lot of prison time."

"He'll be doing a lot more once we get him! Or maybe, _just enough_." Vimes added, darkly. " All officers approach him with _extreme_ caution, gonne-armed, and with none of the constraints on using it that our other visitors have to observe. You, how many of those _round _things is he likely to have? The things that make a gonne dangerous?"

"No more than ten, Commander. So he'll be looking to conserve them."

_The technology apparently exists on this Discworld to construct a gun, of sorts. It caused trouble here before. That's why they're so keen to keep a lid on it and bring us all in. Does the technology exist to refill empty round cases, fill them with propellent, and to cast new bullets? It logically must do. Unless the original Gonne was a flintlock or a muzzle-loader. _

"Do you want me to ask Lord Downey for Guild assistance?" Jocasta asked. "If there's a rogue _gonneman_ on the streets, that makes it Guild business too!"

Vimes looked furious for a second, then reflected.

"Thank you, Jocasta. That would be… helpful. Just bring him in alive, if you people get to him first, so he can stand trial."

The troll Detritus lumbered back. He was carrying a feebly struggling youth in one hand by the scruff of the neck. The boy, a typically undernourished Morporkian street rat, held a bottle in one hand and a box of matches in the other. The bottle was full of an oily liquid and a dirty rag had been stuffed in the top. This acted as a wick, drawing the liquid up into itself.

"Now what have we got here!" Vimes shouted, taking in the scene. Holtack drew the borrowed cloak tighter about himself, letting the hood cover his face, and stood immobile.

"I do believe that is one of those bloody _petrol-bombbes_ that have been causing us trouble – and injury!" He took it from the youth and studied it.

"Let me guess. You light the wick here, right. And I see you have a packet of Astfgls**(1)** in your other hand. You then take care not to hold onto it for too long, because that could be bad for your health. Instead, you throw it in such a way that it causes the maximum injury to one of my bloody Watchmen!"

He bent forward. His face was just inches away from the youth.

"You, sonny, are _nicked_!"

"You can torture me, peeler! You can beat me up in the cells like you did to Paddy Heggarty until he confessed! You can treat me like one of the Pseudopolis Six!**(2)** I'll never tell! _Toichfàidh a'r là!"__**(3)**_

Vimes looked at Carrot.

"It's Hergenian, sir. _Our Day Will Come_. An old fighting slogan. And his name's Eddie Maguire, sir. From Dimwell. One of the Wild Geas street gang."

Vimes shook his head. He looked at the defiant youth.

"_Your_ day certainly has." he said. "And you get a Monday too, up in front of the Patrician. Whether he gives you a Tuesday is up to His Lordship. And for goodness sake, stop faking that bloody thick Hergenian accent. You were born in this bloody city, regardless of where your parents were from!"

"Cuff him, Carrot!"

"Wait" Holtack said, from inside the hood. Carrot and the youth looked at him, standing next to the fashionably clad lady Assassin who had been watching but who had not said a thing.

The youth gulped, all assertion rapidly fading, as he noticed them for the first time.

_Ah. He thinks I'm an Assassin. That could be useful. _

"Commander, I'm assured **we** will be allowed to question this prisoner later?"

Vimes looked at the way the blood had drained from the youth's face, and cottoned on. Jocasta took a dagger from her belt and began to idly clean her fingernails with it, scowling at the detainee.

"We don't _normally_ hand over our prisoners to the Assassins' Guild. But just sometimes.." Vimes mused.

"My colleague here teaches the course module in Interrogation Technique." Jocasta said. "He's very good at it!"

"The scientific application of pain." Holtack reflected. "I might invite some of my students. But they can be so ham-fisted sometimes… still, practice makes perfect!"

Eddie Maguire crumpled.

"What do you want to know?" he whispered, ashen.

"Where did you learn to make those fire-bombs?" Holtack asked, in a friendlier voice.

"There was this fella. Said he'd teach us a new skill. He needed bottles and oil and old rags…"

And the story came out about McElroy, right down to the long bag he carried like it was gold and he wouldn't let anyone else s touch it or see what was in it.

Eventually, Vimes nodded and gestured two Watchmen to drag him away. Another petrol bomber had been brought in by an Army snatch squad and dumped at Vimes' feet by a grinning soldier or two. Holtack looked at them, in their strange Napoleonic-style uniforms, and saw an odd kinship to Headbutt Powell in one of the men. Again, he wondered where Powell and Williams were. But he was beginning to suspect he knew _exactly_ where Sergeant Williams had gone to ground…

"The Wild Geas"**(4)** Carrot said, conversationally. "One of our wilder street gangs, sir. Entry qualifications are that you have to be Hergenian by birth or by parents. They have a sort of romantic streak in them, yearning for the old days when Hergen was a part of the Ankh-Morporkian Empire, and the fighting that went on to free themselves. "

"But they're not bloody well re-enacting it on _my_ bloody streets!" Vimes said, curtly. "Right, we've established this macElroy character is now public enemy number one, but nobody can tell us where he is nor where he's staying. Book this one, Carrot, and get him into a cell. Patrician tomorrow."

The latest arrestee was dragged, whimpering, off.

Holtack picked up one of the impounded petrol bombs and sniffed it.

"Paraffin oil." Vimes said. "Used for domestic heaters. Good grief, what are you doing, man?"

Holtack took a drip of it on the end of his finger, and gingerly tasted it.

_No. Just paraffin. _

"There are refinements you sometimes get to these weapons, Commander." he explained. "Burning petrol causes damage, but just drips off like any liquid. Let's say they'd added half a pound of sugar. That burns more deeply, more intensely, and it sticks to things. Ever bitten into hot jam? This is a thousand times worse."

Vimes repressed a shudder. He'd seen the bodies after a fire at a jam factory.

"And this macElroy character knows that trick?"

"I'm afraid he does, sir. Another good reason for pulling him in."

His eyes drooped. He suddenly felt very tired. Vimes leant across and patted him on the shoulder.

"You're all in." he said. "Better see about getting you discharged, if His Lordship has no further use for you. Then you can do me a favour and escort Sybil back to the Manor, she knows the way. She can sort you out a bath and a meal and a bed to sleep in. Looks like I'm going to be out all night yet!"

They walked back to the Palace together, past groups of Watchmen, soldiers and militia who were reforming for the push into the nearby Maul and the city squares. Holtack suddenly saw a very familiar face, no further than ten yards away. The sergeant's stripes were right, but the _uniform_…

_So Sergeant Williams did go undercover, _he thought. Looks like he's not seen me; he's busy talking to the local Toms. But now I know he's attached himself to the local army, I'd better manufacture an excuse to visit them and find out what the Hell he's up to. For one thing, Vetinari agreed we are not here to invade or to spy on his country in preparation for an invasion. How the Hell is is going to react when he finds out one of my men has gone undercover in his army?

He walked on alongside Vimes, hoping the shrewd copper hadn't noticed his sudden interest in the sergeant.

_Food, a bath and a bed for the night. Wonderful!_

_

* * *

_

Sergeant Williams glanced at the approaching men.

"Sarge, that's Stoneface Vimes, that is! Commands the local Watch".

"Thanks for telling me. The red-haired officer?"

"His deputy, Captain Carrot. The other two, the girl and the man in the cloak and hood, dunno who they are, probably Assassins. If you've never been in this town before, sarge, you do _not_ annoy Assassins!"

Williams nodded, and was about to turn away as the group walked on. Glancing at them from behind, he noticed a gust of wind blew the Assassin's cloak aside, just for an instant. Revealing…

_British Army battledress? _He watched the receding figures for a while, until he was sure: he had seen that particular gait and carriage on parades several hundred times, if he had seen it once.

_Mister Holtack. It must be. _Idly, Williams wondered if Holtack had recognised him. He was showing no sign if it. He shrugged. So at least one member of Seven Platoon had been in the Palace. Lovely, that meant he could narrow it down and make a discreet inquiry. Time enough later to gather in Seven Platoon.

"Right, lovely boys, smoke break's over! Move it!" he announced.

* * *

"So gallant of you to escort me, Lieutenant!"

"Think nothing of it, ma'am. I'm grateful that you offered me a place to stay."

"_Noblesse oblige_, and all that. Besides, you're an officer and a gentleman! Can't have you stranded, can we?"

He was travelling in a coach with Lady Sybil. Jocasta had left to go and find Downey, assuring herself that he was in good hands.

The upholstery seemed a bit bashed and there was a distinct chemical taint in the air, acrid and sooty at the same time, and that was a definite scorch mark on the inside of the door.

"Oh, I normally use this for transporting the best animals to shows" she said, to explain the dilapidated state of the interior.

_Animal breeder. Thought so. _

"Usually it's only me and the dragons who ride in here.".

Holtack sat upright, a sudden vision of the robustly-built Sybil Ramkin as an over-age and rather over-size Dragonrider of Pern intruding on his visual field. _How big do dragons get? And after that magic carpet ride I'm wiling to suspend an awful lot of disbelief…_

She smiled.

"Lovely little chaps, you _must_ see them!"

She then explained they were swamp-dragons, rather smaller than the ones Holtack had envisioned, and barely capable of a staggering sort of flight no more than three feet above ground level, and then not for very long.

"Oh."

"An easy mistake to make, Lieutenant. You don't have dragons on your world? It must be an _awfully _dull place. Although we did have the other sort of dragon here, once, briefly." She sighed.

"An absolutely _gorgeous_ specimen of the noble dragon. I would have loved to have bred from it!"

Then she studied his clothing, critically.

"By all accounts you arrived here in a hurry and very unexpectedly" she said. "I can see those clothes are sturdy, and they're awfully practicable for workwear, but you _really_ need something suitable to your rank and social standing." she said. "I know, I'll get Willikins to measure you up, then we'll see if we can't sort something out for you. Lots of clothes around that used to belong to my father and uncles, although they might be a bit _big_ on you…"

He relaxed. Being dressed as a young gentleman by Lady Sybil – well, there could be worse fates. But he could forego food. Bath and bed were what he needed right now.

And the carriage trotted along Body Street, on its way to cross the Ankh at The Cut, and then right of King's Way onto Scoone Avenue and home. Or what _would_ be home for an indefinite period.

Holtack yawned. Confronting Sergeant Williams and asking him what the Hell he thought he was up to could wait. So could Powell and Williams, J.J. He listened to Sybil's animated chat.

"There are at least three Embassies on Scoone Avenue, but we're on good terms with all the Ambassadors, who are all civilised and decent gentlemen. Ambassador van der Graaf, for instance, at the Rimwards Howondalandian. Pieter and Frijda, such _lovely_ people! They have a niece who teaches at the Assassins' Guild School, she's one of Sam's Special Constables. Busy girl, but she still fitted in the time to come and see my dragons…"

He let Sybil's chatter wash over him, while pretending complete attention – it was a knack he had perfected in many classrooms over the years.

* * *

And across the city in Hide Park, a tense stand-off was about to begin….

* * *

**(1) **On Roundworld, the early primitive match was called a _**Lucifer. **_

**(2) **In olden days when Hergen was still fighting a civil war for freedom from Ankh-Morpork, a large explosion happened in the city of Pseudopolis that was put down to Hergenian freedom fighters making a gesture. Policing techniques being more robust in those days, with the Watch Commander under pressure to make an arrest, six people of the correct nationality who had all been within fifty miles of Pseudopolis on the night of the blast were rounded up, handed over to the care of the old-style Cable Street Particulars, and treated to the very best hospitality Cable Street could provide until they all cracked and confessed. Parallels the Birmingham Six on Roundworld, a group of people who were all

(i) Irish and

(ii) in Birmingham

on the night of an IRA bomb, and therefore, in the eyes of the West Midlands Police, guilty. Up to twenty-five years later, they were still in prison for crimes they did not commit.

**(3) **_Irish Gaelic_**: Our Day Will Come! **An IRA battle slogan.

**(4) **In seventeenth and eighteenth century Europe, Irish mercenaries serving in other European armies for the sake of the _craic _and the possibility of taking a slap at the hated British styled themselves as the Wild Geese – having flown a long way from home, in some cases to South America, and living in exile from a country they could not return to. Given the meanings of the word "Geas" on the Discworld, this was irrresistable.


	38. No rest for the wicked

_**Slipping Between Worlds – 38**_

Philip Holtack had arrived the previous evening, somewhat unexpectedly by both sides, in the heart of the Shades just after nightfall. His subsequent adventures and the need to fight his way out a life-threatening situation had given him a rather prejudiced concept of what the city of Ankh-Morpork was like overall. But he could now see that the west bank of the river, the city of Ankh, was a lot more salubrious and socially upscale than the east. He still couldn't get his head around the notion this world was flat, and that it necessarily used a familiar-but-different set of cardinal directions to navigate by.

_A lot more green open space. Larger houses. Bigger gardens. Apart from the universal horse shit, cleaner streets. _

He remembered reading that in 1908, the mayoralty of New York had forecast that unless something were done about it, the city would be under ten feet of compacted horse droppings by 1950… it looked as if Ankh were nearly there.

Then they turned a corner, and he saw a group of hunched, goblin-like figures, lurching and jerking in their gait as they industrially shovelled a drift of horse-apples from the street onto the back of a cart. _Good Lord! Is that one _**eating**_ the stuff? _

Their shape was hard to make out; under some sort of shell or carapace they looked like animated mushrooms. Holtack watched them, fascinated and repelled at the same time.

"Gnolls." said Lady Sybil. "Perfectly tame now they're in the city, but in the wild, they are lethal little swine! Filthy, too. I keep a tight hold of Young Sam if any are near. You try to be open-minded and take people as you find them, and Willikins pays them a few pennies to take the surplus waste from the stables and dragon-pens. I know up _here_ they've got over it now, but down _here_ I'm a mother, and you read the stories that in the old days, human baby was a prized delicacy."

She shuddered.

"And your… son or daughter, ma'am?" Holtack asked, politely. _There is such a thing as a Samantha, he reminded himself. _

She smiled, happily.

"Only four. You'll meet the little scamp soon enough. Takes after his father."

_Scowls, glares and smokes cigars? _

And then the coach turned into Ramkin Manor. The staff must have been tipped off that Her Ladyship was on the way home: the porter at the gates and a couple of what looked like gardeners smoothly opened the large ornate (and rather rusty) wrought-iron gates, and tipped their hats as the coach pulled in. Horses' hooves crunched on the long gravelled drive, and Holtack took in the spacious gardens and the ornamental lake.

Something large stirred in the lake. After what he'd seen and heard, he would not have been surprised if it contained Nessie, or a huge water-dwelling dragon. But no…

A hippopotamus stirred and broke surface, opening its mouth wide in a huge toothy grin. He looked at Sybil, questioningly.

"Oh, that's Roderick!" she said, as if it were no big thing. "You can tell him from Keith by the teeth. We got them a few years ago when the College of Heralds burned down. Funny thing was, when they established the City Zoo, they didn't want to leave here! They like it too much!"

"Are they a bother?" he asked, politely. She laughed.

"Oh, good gracious, no! We keep them well fed so they aren't tempted to eat the shrubbery. They're tame enough, but if I were you I wouldn't go down there alone until they get to know you. They're terrifically territorial!"**(1)**

_And they guard the way in from the main road, _Holtack thought.

She looked at him as if reading his thoughts.

"Yes, Sam _did _have a bit of bother from the Assassins' Guild at one point." she said. "I prefer to view it as a silly game they were playing. One Assassin had the bright idea of hiding under the surface of the lake with a breathing tube, so the moment Sam came into view, he could emerge from hiding and take a pot-shot. Well, Roderick and Keith put paid to that notion. As I say, terrifically territorial. The gardeners had to rescue him from up a tree!"

"Do you get much of that now?" Holtack asked.

"Not after I had a word with Donald Downey!" Sybil said, firmly. "Miss Band from the Guild School sometimes sends a pupil here to do a recce, if she feels the pupil's been cheeky or insolent or just over-confident. Sam obliges her by giving the child a practical lesson, but they go back chastened and more-or-less undamaged. Nice young gel, Alice. Did I mention we both went to the same school? She's been here for dinner, when we had a Quirm Academy re-union for old girls here. Perfectly safe, as you can invite an Assassin round for dinner and they're well-bred enough to promise not to take advantage of that, professionally speaking!"

Holtack had enough presence of mind to get out of the cab first, then to race round to the other side to open the door for Lady Sybil. However, he found he'd been beaten to it by a large, imposing, butler in his fifties, with receding grey hair and the sort of imperious manner only to be found in senior servants.

"I trust you had a satisfactory day at the Palace, my lady?" the butler asked, in deep sonorous tones, as he helped her down from the coach.

"Most interesting, Willikins!" she assured him. "The usual crowd were there, the _usual suspects_, as Sam calls them, and as usual they tied themselves in knots trying to get to the bottom of what was going on. Poor old Charles Selachii _really _disgraced himself… oh, and may I introduce our house guest, Lieutenant Holtack?"

Willikins the butler turned to regard Holtack. Who had the distinct impression he was being weighed up and judged and failing on all counts, even though the butler's expression was one of carefully gauged neutrality and impassivity.

"His Grace did send a clacks, yes, appraising us of the situation."

"Good, then you've been briefed. I want to go and check up on what the kennel-girls have been doing while I've been away. You might want to show the lieutenant to his room and make him feel at home?"

"Very good, ma'am. May I remind you the Ambassador and his wife are guests for aperitifs tonight?"

"You may, Willikins. I will be present."

She turned to Holtack.

Willikins will show you to your room, Philip. You can freshen up and perhaps snatch a little sleep before you're called for dinner, I'm sure you must be tired after your adventures, since you, er, _arrived_? We've got neighbours round for drinks later, but I'm sure you know how to behave in the company of an Ambassador. You did damn' well with Havelock earlier! I've got dragons to see to first, then some quality time with the scamp, if I can prize him away from his nanny. See you later!"

"This way, sir." the butler said, as Lady Ramkin rounded a corner, presumably to the dragon kennels.

Holtack followed him, through a hall that was bigger than the house he'd grown up in, up a broad marble staircase, and round a few corners down a corridor. Other members of staff, maids and footmen engaged in God-knows what, paused to regard him briefly. A mutter of "_he's one of the bloody _**aliens**_! Look at what he's _**wearing**_!_" was cut short by a glare from Willikins.

"Your quarters, sir." The butler said, opening a door. "I trust sir _bathes_?" he added, in a tone of voice that sounded suspiciously as thought the speaker feared he might have to explain the concept and philosophy of a bath, with diagrams and illustrations if necessary.

"That will be… most acceptable, Mr Willikins!" Holtack said, not at ease with the concept of servants and being served.

"Just Willikins, if you please, sir. A bath should be in preparation for you. I will go and check."

The butler left. Holtack tried the bed. A good deep mattress, a bit hard, probably cold to get into, but body heat should soon warm it.

He laid down and closed his eyes gratefully, trying to forget that Ramkin Manor looked and felt like something out of a Hammer horror movie.

_Sleep. Lovely, lovely word. _

He actually felt himself drifting off on a warm fuzzy tide, the very best sort, that begins at the toes and fingertips and works upwards and inwards.

"Your bath is prepared, sir".

The butler had re-entered the room, silently.

"Please come this way".

Holtack shook off sleep and obediently followed him down the corridor to a very obvious bathroom. Water steamed invitingly from an old-fashioned wrought-iron tub with decorative clawed feet standing on a cold tiled floor.

"Hot towels on the rail here, for when Sir requires them. The dressing-gown belonged to the late Sir Joshua Ramkin. I apologise for the size being possibly many times larger than Sir.

"Sir Samuel also suggested that as you only have the one set of clothes for the moment, that something practical be done for Sir in the department of socks and underwear. Again I apologise for these being servant-quality, the sort I would issue to a new footman or other male servant, but these were all I was able to locate in your approximate size. Her Ladyship has said she will endeavour to equip you appropriately according to your social status. As a junior army officer without a title, I understand you rank as a gentleman commoner. Sir."

There it was again, that indefinable hint of social superiority.

"I also understand the rest of your…. campaign uniform… has recently been repaired and laundered by skilled hands. Unhappily, as you arrived here somewhat precipitately and had no time to pack mess dress, this will have to suffice for dinner tonight."

"You _are _familiar with the concept of Mess dress, sir?" the butler added, as if making sure. Holtack winced.

"Yes, but it's locked up in a wardrobe in Chepstow for the duration." he said, wondering if he'd ever see barracks again.

"Not to mind, sir. Her Ladyship has an idea or two in mind." the butler replied, suavely. "Now I can leave you to your bath?"

_Mess Dress. _Eight occasions out of ten, the battalion's officers ate informally, wearing whatever they had been working in. On the ninth, the Colonel stipulated Number Three or Number Two uniform, just to be sure we can all look a bit more presentable. But on high holy days in the Regiment's calendar, such as St David's Day (The Eating of the Leek), or Kohima Day, or any of the other anniversaries of significant battle honours won by the Regiment**(2)**, it was full ceremonial mess dress, a uniform not so much to eat in as to be seen eating and drinking in. Mess Dress was also worn, or at least an option, when attending other Regimental messes as a guest.

He shuddered. Not paying attention and turning up at Mess in the incorrect uniform for the dress code had once cost him a nasty dig from the Colonel, a glare from Alice Band, and a week of Orderly Officer duties.

But he gratefully accepted the bath, sinking into the hot suds with an involuntary squeal of pleasure. He would not have been surprised if the supercilious butler – and damn the man, there was nothing specific for Holtack to object to in the man's mannerisms, it was as if the general air of superior disdain had been painfully learnt over thirty-odd years – were to return wearing a breathing mask and using tongs to dispose of Holtack's old socks and underwear, as if it were a biohazard.

_Which it probably is by now, _he reflected, wallowing. _The Shirt Factory, a long patrol, the .. . transition… to here, being rinsed out last night in water that looks like it came direct from that filthy stew of a river, being imperfectly dried, and then worn again…_

Again he wondered about the nature of the transition that had brought them here. Being told that back on Roundworld… _no, that's _**their **_name, back on _**Earth**_, let's not go native…_back on Earth they were thought of as dead and lost, that had been more of a shock than he'd thought, at first. _But if back there we are dead… then this is like extra added life. A whole new life, in fact. But can they ever get us back? How can they do it? That boffin, Stibbons, admitted it happened before and they got the chap back safe and sound. I'll have to ask him. But if we cannot go back… find out what this city and society has to offer. Make the most of it. It's not all bad. Lady Sybil's generosity. This bath. Jocasta. _

He thought of Jocasta. Nineteen? Twenty? He was twenty-three. Capable girl, self-reliant, knows what she wants, doesn't seem unfairly or unfavourably disposed to you. He smiled and let a warm thought guide him where it would. Then he remembered. _Damn. She did say there was a_ **somebody else.** _Wonder who he is? And if there's even a glimmering of getting back to Earth and reporting in from that patrol, I'm duty-bound to take it. Is it right, morally speaking, to start something I can't finish with a girl here? _

With another guilty start, he thought of his parents. And his sister.

_They'll be devastated. Dennie might be a bit upset too. _

The thought that he'd never see them again intruded. _Don't think about that. You can't so anything to help it, so don't beat yourself up over it. _

As the water cooled, and he realised the tiled and bare bathroom was something of a cold trap, he reluctantly finished his bath – his first actual bath in _months, _he realised - and dressed, wincing at the scratchy, starchy feel of the servant-issue underpants next to his skin. They were made of a coarser fabric than he was used to._ Don't whinge. You'll get used to it. _

The shower last night at the police station had done a little to wash off three months worth of Shirt Factory grime, he realised, watching most of it drain down the plug-hole. He considered the tide-mark with guilt – his filth - and looked for a brush or cloth to scrub it off with.

"No need, sir." The butler had returned, on cue, as silently as an Assassin. "That is not a gentleman's consideration. An upstairs maid will be along shortly to tidy up."

Holtack, in the borrowed underwear, noted Willikins was carrying a tape measure. One of two footmen waiting in the doorway held a clip-board.

"Your underthings, sir?" Willikins nodded forward a second footman, who was carrying a jute bag, which he held open.

"Just drop them into the bag Matkin is holding out, if you would be so kind, sir. I will see to it that they are safely disposed of.".

Holtack waved a symbolic farewell to his Army issue socks, vest and underpants. He doubted he'd be seeing them again, any time soon. The footman sealed the bag and departed.

"If you would just oblige me, sir. Her ladyship is most insistent we take your clothing measurements. I believe she intends to dress you in the manner most becoming to a gentleman of your status."

"_Gentleman commoner_, I remember you said, Willikins?"

"Indeed so, sir. A gentleman, without title, who somehow succeeds in securing an Army commission. It's quite a social niche in its own right."

Holtack winced again – that bit about "without title", separated by two very distinctly sounded commas, had been perfectly judged. He allowed Willikins to take extensive measurements, which he dictated to the footman with the clipboard.

And then it was back to the assigned bedroom, to slump on the bed and happily drift off, undisturbed, this time.

* * *

Sergeant Williams supervised the return of equipment to stores. He was used to the necessary but tedious work, which marked the end of training days or, in this case, the end of an active day's service. He was pleased with the way the Llamedosian soldiers had risen to a new challenge, and the way the biggest and fastest of them had responded to some necessarily perfunctory training as _snatch squads_, but two things worried him.

He was still unsure as to whether Lieutenant Holtack had recognised him, out there in the square. He consoled himself with the knowledge that he had _certainly _recognised his platoon commander, walking past in the company of Vimes and Captain Carrot, the city's two most senior policemen, he was given to understand. The other thing was more serious. From the reactions of policemen and soldiers, the petrol bombs that were familiar to him had been totally unknown here. Until this afternoon. So somehow the knowledge had been imported from the streets of Northern Ireland to those of Ankh-Morpork.

By who?

He hoped it wasn't one of Seven Platoon, and to be fair, he couldn't think of any man who would, even in these circumstances, impart ouch a potentially lethal secret to the local yobs. But, he reflected, just before the event that took us here, there had been an IRA sniper who had been rattled into exchanging shots with Boer Ruijterman. He had been firing from a window that was at least as near to the suspected bomb as Lieutenant Holtack had been, where he and young Hughes had been dragging the old bag-lady and her infernal basket to safety. Powell and Williams had been jogging up behind him to do a frontal on the house the sniper had been firing from. _So if up to six of us were blasted, against all logic and explanation, into an alternative universe, whatever caused it to happen would certainly have drawn in that bloody Provo too. He was near enough. _

Sergeant Williams was not happy about the thought of an armed IRA terrorist walking around this city, where by the logic of his own organisation and indoctrination, there were up to six legitimate targets, including himself, Sergeant Williams. He hoped Lieutenant Holtack had been bright enough to work it out too, and had warned everyone else. If indeed they weren't still at large out there somewhere. Although the papers said three had been brought in? That still left two…

The last shields and batons were returned to store and checked off. Williams sighed and wondered about another talk with the RSM. A duty Corporal was standing there.

"Sergeant Williams?"

"Aye"

"Regimental commander's asking for you, sarge. He wants a chat, at your convenience."

"I'm on my way" Williams said. He'd heard that Lord Selachii was a blustering idiot who found it difficult to tell his arse from his elbow. _Should not be too difficult to guide, then…_

_

* * *

_

The atmosphere in the park-keeper's hut was growing uncomfortable, for a lot of different reasons. That smell, like chemicals put down to mask the odour of decaying meat, was growing ever-higher. Senior Park-Keeper Flowerdew was groaning back to unconsciousness. Fusiliers Powell and Williams had helped themselves to another brew of tea. The policeman, the grey-green Constable Shoe, had politely refused.

_Reg Shoe…_

"Say again, mun." Powell requested, not quite able to believe the evidence of his own ears.

"I don't drink…"

"No, the bit after that. You are, and I use the word in not the usual context, as you still appears to be moving and capable of conversation, _dead?_"

Reg nodded.

"And by the way, I resent the vitalist perception that death necessarily has to entail a cessation of all bodily functions." he added.

"But, and forgive me for pointing it out, generally that would seem to be the case? In my experience, at least." objected Powell.

Reg snorted.

"Hah! That's naked _vitalism_, that is! Look, I didn't chose to die thirty-odd years ago… well, maybe making the supreme sacrifice _seemed _like a good idea at the time, but I was younger then, hadn't _learnt,_ had I! And let me tell you, those seven or eight crossbow bolts in the chest _hurt_, right? I can show you the holes, if you like…"**(3)**

"Er… no thanks, mun!" Powell said, hurriedly. "But… you… sort of stayed alive?"

"Forced to! I'm a zombie, right? I am dead and I am…"

Fusilier Williams, who had been listening in horrified fascination, had grabbed the riot control gun and levelled it, the muzzle shaking.

"Down!" screamed Powell, as Williams squeezed the trigger…

There was an ear-splitting crack, as Reg and Powell threw themselves to the ground. Williams, realising, joined them as a five-inch long plastic bullet began to zing and ricochet around the confines of the hut. The luckless Senior Park-Keeper Flowerdew , coming back to consciousness and raising his head, went _Urgggh!_ and slumped again as the almost-spent baton round collided with the side of his head.

There was a moment's embarrassed silence.

"I should be obliged, J.J." Powell said, with forced calm, "if you refrain from doing that again inside this yere parkie's hut. What got into you, anyway?"

"He's a zombie! A brain-eating _zombie_!" Williams almost squawked, all restraint gone.

Reg sighed.

"More personal abuse!" he said, in a put-upon voice. "I can see you two need a consciousness-raising session…"

* * *

"So Reg Shoe's not reported in yet. He's an hour overdue." Vimes said. "Where was he last?"

"Well, sir, I felt with the crowd-control situation largely having been resolved, I could afford to detach men for normal duties. As Senior Park-Keeper Flowerdew was shouting for somebody to investigate reports of theft from his private hut, I sent Reg to deal with it, to investigate, make a report, and calm the man down, basically."

"Hmmm." said Vimes, thoughtfully. "And we had those other reports of strange thefts in the area. Blankets and clothes from washing lines from houses backing onto the Park."

"And those other Visitors who were seen in the area yesterday but who have disappeared without trace since." Carrot said.

"The Alien Mothership _might _have sucked them back on board." Vimes thought. "On the other hand, if you want to disappear without trace, a bloody big crowd, like the one in Hide Park today, is ideal. Especially if all there is to recognise you by is your uniform. So you'd want to get into civvies as soon as possible. And now Reg has gone missing."

Vimes and Carrot looked at each other.

"Get the iconographs and descriptions of those three Visitors we're still looking for, would you, Carrot? And assemble a squad."

There was a commotion and running feet in the hallway.

"Something tells me the other shoe's about to drop, Carrot!" Vimes said.

A breathless Watchman knocked and raced in.

"Sir! Sir! Report of a gonne being fired in Hide Park!"

Vimes grinned, mirthlessly.

"Make it a gonneproof squad, would you, Carrot? And let's get these people before the bloody Assassins do!"

* * *

Sergeant Williams was surprised to see the Colonel's office was occupied by a younger Major. He also noted that RSM Dickens was already there. Deciding on his strategy, Williams marched in, in his best parade-ground manner, stamped to an impressive attention, and threw up the best salute of his life.

Rather than manifest shellshocked confusion, the Major simply looked a little puzzled as Williams stamped to attention. After a while, in which he seemed to be looking first at Dicken's feet and then Williams', the Major looked up.

"At ease please, Sergeant", he requested.

He allowed a moment or two to pass, and said

"I don't doubt you, sergeant, when you said you've been posted into this regiment and have only really joined us as of late yesterday. A lot of other strange things happened yesterday, as I'm sure you're aware. We spent most of today dealing with them in one way or another, and I'm bound to say your personal input was impressive. Very able indeed. I'd be delighted to put a note on your personal file to that effect, for the attention of your _permanent_ commanding officer."

He paused again.

"But unfortunately, we do not appear to have your personal file yet?"

"I'm sure it's on its way, sir." Williams said, with more confidence than he felt. _Damn. There has to be a bright officer in every regiment. Why is it my bad luck to meet him today? _

"Never mind, I won't embarrass you by asking about your previous postings. But you do understand that as Lord Selachii is indisposed at the moment, I am responsible for this regiment and I need to be able to assure myself as to the credentials of a new sergeant who turns up out of nowhere."

Dickens threw him a "_sorry, boyo, I was not anticipating this_" look.

Major Jeffries smiled a thin smile.

"I'd like you both to oblige me. Something puzzled me when you reported in, Sergeant. Sergeant-Major, please come to attention for me."

Puzzled, Dickens lifted his left foot and stamped it down alongside the right. There was the slam and a clatter of a hobnailed boot striking the bare wooden floor.

"Thank you, sergeant-major. At ease!"

There was another clatter as Dickens resumed the ease.

"Now you, sergeant."

Puzzled, Williams slammed into attention. There was the _thud-thunk!_of a rubber DMS bootsole hitting the bare boards. Then he realised, to his horror. This was an intelligent officer. And the one piece of his uniform that they had not thought to exchange, if only because well-broken boots are so personal to a soldier, were his _boots…_

"At ease, sergeant".

_**Thud-thunk!**_

"I can't help noticing, Sergeant Williams, that your boots are not standard issue. For one thing, they make a different note when you come to attention. I've heard that before today. Three times. At the Patrician's Palace. Show me the soles, please?"

Willims sighed, leaned back, and lifted a leg. The Major scrutinised the black rubberised plastic sole, said "definitively not local manufacture, then. Thank you!" and

Would you like to tell me who you are and where you _really _come from? "

Major Jeffries took a sheet of paper out of his pocket. He showed it to Williams and Dickens. It was a very good photograph of Sergeant Williams in British Army uniform, with a brief autobiography underneath.

"If it helps, your commanding lieutenant made a very good show at the Palace. Very impressive. The two soldiers detained with him were a credit to your abilities too. But we were all advised three more men from the same unit, including a sergeant, were on the run in this city and have evaded detention. It does rather look as if I've located one."

"Am I under arrest, sir?" Williams asked, mildly.

Jeffries laughed.

"Well, you've broken enough military laws!" he said. "Imposturing as a sergeant of this regiment. Unentitled wear of the uniform. Assuming command without authority. Since you belong to the armed forces of a different, er, _country_… you know, you should be glad Lord Selachii is indisposed. He would have had you shot for spying!"

Jeffries smiled again.

"But set against that, let the record note you offered your skills and advice unselfishly and to the net benefit of the Regiment and the successful completion of an active service task. Not the usual or expected action of a spy infiltrating the Regiment with intent to weaken it from within, I have to say. Since I received the personal thanks of Lord Vetinari for today, and a lot of that was due to you, I'm minded to be thankful."

"Am I under arrest, sir?"

"No." said Jeffries. "I might, however, place you in protective custody for the night and send you to the Palace in the morning. Together with all personal effects you brought with you into the Discworld. Mr Dickens. I note you are a very senior NCO who is only three years away from a honourable and well-earned retirement. Which,_ if his personal record is unblemished_, carries with it a pension. Bearing that in mind, therefore, I am passing Sergeant Williams back into your care until I contact the Palace for advice as to what to do with him. When the Palace want him, Mr Dickens, it is up to you to produce him. Clear?"

"Clear, sir."

"Good!" said Jeffries. "By the way, Sergeant Williams, the Patrician heard the evidence and allowed your three comrades to go free in this city. I should think he'll do the same for you, too. You might want to think about re-enlisting with us, perhaps through more conventional channels next time. That was extended as an option to your colleagues, and as far as I'm concerned, I _need _experienced and skilled sergeants. Dismiss, you will be called for."

* * *

Philip Holtack pulled his familiar old uniform on for dinner. It would do: it was accepted mess dress four nights out of seven, for goodness sake.

He felt slow and muggy after two hours' doze. Willikins had awoken him and advised him he had twenty minutes to prepare for dinner. He had thanked the butler, wishing he could forego his host's hospitality and go straight to sleep. Eating could wait for breakfast. But he felt his absence would raise eyebrows, so he splashed his face with cold water from the wash-stand – no sink, he noted - dressed, and made his way downstairs, trying not to get lost en route.

"This way, sir!" a footman said, ushering him to a door. The footman went ahead.

"The lieutenant, my ladies, your Excellency."

Lady Sybil rose to greet him. She seemed genuinely pleased to see him.

"Philip! Are you rested? Good, come and see Young Sam before his bedtime!"

_Wish it were my bed-time, _thought Holtack. He was arrested by the sight of a stumpy little figure posing in front of the fire, an air of gruff attitude about him, a four-year old boy playing at being Daddy. Her rolled the cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other…. _The cigar? _And said, in a piping toddler voice

"_You are nicked!"_

"You spotted the cigar, then?" Lady Sybil said, benevolently. "I know. Terribly bad for him. But Higgs and Meakins make them at twenty pence each, and they're _very_ realistic."

"Oh." Said Holtack.

"You can't refuse him wanting to look like Daddy, but I try to keep him to one a day. Purity, _do_ see he washes his hands and face and cleans his teeth before bed, would you?"

"Yes, ma'am." said the nanny.

Holtack looked again and blinked. The little boy was courteously offering him the cigar. The _chocolate _cigar.

"Nice of you to offer, Sam." said Holtack. "But I won't deprive you of a good smoke."

Sybil laughed, and the Nanny saw her cue to take him around saying good night to everyone.

"Go'night, mummy. G'night Mr Peter. _Tot siens_, Lady Freeda. G'night, you, but you're _still _nicked!"

Holtack was introduced to the dinner guests. Mr Peter turned out to be Pieter van der Graaf, the Howondalandian Ambassador, a neighbour of the Vimeses. He was a sharp-looking man in his fifties with a long angular face, greying hair that might one have been blond, and sharp eyes that Holtack was sure missed nothing. Lady Frijda, his wife, was a few years younger, and still striking, with fine bones and an oval face. She would have been a real beauty when younger, Holtack noted.

Willikins placed a drink into his hand, and retired inobtrusively.

Holtack sipped it. Gin and tonic, or a near perfect imitation of.

He noted the Ambassador was observing him closely. Holtack remembered his training in social graces and etiquette.

_If you ever meet an Ambassador in a duty or social context, the appropriate form of address is "Your Excellency" on first introduction (if in uniform, accompany this with a salute). Afterwards, depending on rank, "sir" or "my lord" if applicable are acceptable. _

He also recalled other training, in which it had been reinforced to them to take very great care when dealing with diplomats. These are men who are trained to listen, as much to what you are not saying as to what you are. They will seek to draw information out of you. Be careful what you say.

But Mr van der Graaf was agreeable enough, waving away the proffered "_Your Excellency_…" with a dismissive hand gesture.

"We're here socially, es neighbours." he said. "Although it is true thet my Embassy is a couple of houses down the street."

His accent was educated Southern African. It put Holtack in mind of Riujterman, and a generous impulse filled him, remembering the stateless Rhodesian soldier.

Lubricated by gin, they talked about the day's emergency, Lady Frijda chipping in with exclamations of how _horrible_it must have been, to be besieged inside the Palace. Holtack suspected that whatever Pieter van der Graaf's reasons for marrying her, her brains must have come fairly low down the list. _Still, every Embassy must need an attractive personable woman to welcome the guests, arrange the flowers, and pile the little gold-foil wrapped chocolate balls up into a neat pyramid, _he thought.

"I understand Lord Vetinari was going to send a message to all overseas embassies and legations, explaining what was happening and stressing the emergency would soon be over, and that he remained Patrician." Holtack said. Van der Graaf nodded.

"_Ja._We received ours et ebout four o'clock" he said. "The Petricien was most cendid, by his stendards!"

"But _you_ere interesting!" Frijda said, looking down to him – she was a tall woman, about five foot nine or ten – and reflectively taking a fold of his uniform jacket between her fingers.

"End you are really from enother plenet?" she said, breathlessly.

"Another world, anyway." Holtack said. The Ambassador nodded.

"It sometimes helps if you telk ebout these things? I em not here officially. Look upon me as a potential friend, _Liutnant_."

Holtack nodded. He was almost sure it was sincerely meant. And he felt in need of people to talk to, and hadn't Vetinari himself said that he was being forced, in dealing with the Embassy contingent, to rely on the complete truth of what had happened?

So over dinner, in agreeable company, fuelled by wine and lack of sleep, he told the Ambassador everything. Van der Graaf confirmed that Vetinari had been most candid, and Holtack was telling him no more than had already been revealed to him. Which was valuable, as it provided confirmation. But tell me, _Liutnant,_there is a rumour going around that one of the men who fell through this hole in space and time with you, he was Howondalandian? Which may make my involvement _official?_

Holtack nodded.

"That is one of the weird things, sir." he said. "There must have been a lot of parallel development between our worlds, as we are sitting her now, talking to each other in what to me is perfectly good English. That is, Morporkian, to you. To my ears, it sounds like the English spoken two or three hundred years ago on my world, but still intelligible. The men under my command belong to a Welsh regiment. Some even speak Welsh. We discovered on arrival here we are mistaken for people from a country called Llamedos, where a language is spoken which to our ears is perfectly good Welsh. And then there's Fusilier Ruijterman."

Holtack explained about the Rhodesian soldier and how he had ended up in the British Army on the strength of being a quarter British by one grandparent.

"And when he landed here, the Assassin tasked with bringing him in and persuading him to give himself up – well, she turns out to speak Afrikaans and to be from your… Howondalland. How much of a million to one chance is that?"

"Million to one chences heppen more often than you expect, _Liutnant_." said the Ambassador. "Did you find out _which Afrikaans, _thet is, _Vondalaans_-speaking, Essessin brought this man in?"

"It was a Miss Smith-Rhodes, sir. I met her briefly this morning. I also saw her make a case in front of the Patrician. She is very impressive!"

The Ambassador smiled. His wife put on a facial expression that combined family pride and exasperation.

"I would expect no less of her, Liutnant. She is our niece, end a loyal citizen of the Republik!"

"Perhaps the day has kept her too busy to report to us, Peter." Frijda said. He nodded acknowledgement.

"We are very proud of our Johanna. She was, for one thing, the first White Howandalandian to graduate from the Essessins' School. She hes ecomplished a lot here since."

He smiled, contentedly.

Holtack felt impelled to fill the silence.

"Ruijterman was saying to me, sir, that both Miss Smith-Rhodes and another Assassin, called…" he tried to recall a name ".._Heidi van Kruger_, both made an impression on him. He has spoken to both about Howondaland. He said the country they described is so like the South Africa he knows that he would like to go there someday. While I had to remind him his first duty is to try to get back Home and rejoin the British Army, I can't help feeling it might be better for him to stay here. He has no ties of family or friendship at home, apart from the Army. Perhaps you could find the time to meet him, to see if he meets any requirements you might impose for naturalisation to your country? In the circumstances, I can't really see how I could say "no", and I suppose I'm the highest-ranking British officer on this planet. If that doesn't give me grounds to grant a compassionate discharge, I don't see what does."

The Ambassador was quiet for a moment. Then he said

"Heidi I know elso. I will esk her to the Embassy to report to me on today. And I must edmit, this makes for an interesting diplomatic situation. This man Hans Ruijterman both is, and is not, a citizen of my country. Es the nearest thing to a _Sedefrrrikan _diplomat here, I cen present a case to Lord Vetinari for eccess to this man es of right. I believe I hev a moral case, if not a legal one. I will also speak to Johanna and to Heidi for their opinions. Thenk you for raising the issue, _Liutnant_." The Ambassador paused, reflected, and added

"A word of edvice, _Liutnant._ You say, quite rightly, you are the most senior Army officer from your country in this Discworld. To my way of thinking, thet also makes you your country's unofficial representative in this city. You should perheps learn to think of yourself in the context of being the British Embessador in this city. For you especially, these are extraordinary times!"

Holtack relaxed, with the feeling that he had done the best for his soldier, as duty and moral obligation demanded. But he didn't like the direction the Ambassador's chain of logic was taking...

The rest of the dinner proceeded happily enough, and much later in the evening, Holtack was able to go to his room with the intention of sleeping.

He found a young upstairs maid, who had inserted a warming-pan in between his sheets. She giggled at him.

"That's your bed warmed, sir. Is there anything else Sir might require?"

There was a suspicion about her voice of what the _something else_ might be, if he wanted it. And she was pretty enough, in a petite sort of way. He grinned.

_OK, the manners and morals of an earlier England might prevail here. Where the gentry saw the upstairs maids as bedwarmers in their own right. Look at Edward VII and what a randy dog he was at country house parties. But then again, Lady Sybil might see it as a shocking breach of hospitality. And there's Jocasta. Do you want to give her up for the sake of a stray poke? Besides, you're too pissed, or you wouldn't be thinking this way. And that bloody butler might walk in…_

"Call me in the morning, m'dear. I've just been drinking, like a, like a…"

"Ramkin?" she suggested, cheerfully. "And the name's Penny, by the way."

"Drinking like a Ramkin, yes, that's it!" he agreed. "I'm too drunk to perform. I'd fluff the script!"

She giggled.

"That's a new way of putting it! See you in the morning, sir!"

As she left, Holtack as already undressing.

Only to be woken up a few hours later.

"Boy?" Somebody was shaking his shoulder. There was a suspicion of cigar smoke.

"It's me. Commander Vimes."

Holtack was suddenly glad of not having bedded the maid.

"We've got two of your men in a stand-off in Hide Park. I need you. Maybe you can talk them into surrendering."

Holtack was suddenly wide-awake, if not completely sober. He leapt out of bed and started hunting for clothes.

"Tell me all about it…" he invited Vimes.

* * *

**(1) **See _**Men At Arms **_by Terry Pratchett for the story of how the City hippos came to be in the keeping of the Duke of Ankh.

**(2) **Or in the case of Yorktown (1779) of a battle lost, a surrender with pride, and the birth of a new upstart nation. Any nearby American officers were usually invited for this one.

The _Eating of the Leek _is a Regimental custom, where on St David's Day, the most junior officer and the youngest enlisted Fusilier are paraded and required to eat an entire leek. Raw. The origins of the custom are lost in the mists of time, but (basic military sadism aside) one folklore commentator established a link between this and the old Welsh custom of _sin-eating_, where a plate of food is placed on top of the coffin, and a member of the family is elected to eat it, thus symbolically absorbing the sins of the deceased and allowing their soul to pass to Heaven in a white and tidy condition. It is possible the two candidates on St David's Day are symbolically eating the accumulated sin of an entire regiment. And that's a lot of sin, boyo. There are, or were, professional sin-eaters, viewed almost as untouchables in polite Welsh society, who for a consideration would sit up with the deceased, eat the sin-meal of bread and salt from atop the coffin, and who would over time accumulate _everybody's _sin. Before his own death, the sin-eater was expected to pass the burden on to an apprentice, so that he himself could pass unsullied to Heaven. If he could not finfd an apprentice wiling to become a social scapegoat, he was in trouble...

(3) See**_ Night Watch _**by Terry Pratchett for how zombiedom was forced on Reg. He develops a militant streak in **_Reaper Man. _**


	39. Undead or alive

_**Slipping Between Worlds – 39**_

Philip Holtack double-marched back down Scoone Avenue alongside Commander Vimes, and a younger policeman who was introduced as Lance-Constable Ping. To his slight consternation, the older man set a fast pace, and having been roused from sleep recently and still at least partly in bed and sleeping, Holtack was pressed to keep up. They jogged across a main road leading out to the… turnwise? Holtack noted that even at this hour, laden produce wagons were still coming in from outside the city, probably on their way to markets and stores. Vimes grunted that they'd just crossed King's Way, which was the main road out to bloody Quirm, all soft sloppy cheese, garlic, onions and snails.

A suspicion crossed his mind. This planet so far had a Wales and a South Africa and the ambience of this place was the true unromanticised Olde England. Why should it stop there?

"Quirm. They'll have a superior attitude, think they're God's most beloved creation, and I just bet there's a tower in the main city? _Et si tu ne parles pas français, nous ne parlons jamais?"_

Vimes grinned.

"I can see you've got the language! Never got the hang of snorting it all back up my nose like that. And how many words does a language _need_ for a nice simple concept like "the", anyway?"

They swerved past another heap of horse droppings, and on along a new street, Prousts. Still thinking about things French, Holtack wondered. _À la recherché du temps perdu?_ Eric Idle challenging all comers to summarise the whole eleven volumes of Proust's master-work in less than thirty seconds?

_Strangling small animals, golf and masturbation._

The memory provoked a smile: there was just a hint of Monty Python in the strange logic of this Discworld place. As the inner TV screen played out Michael Palin's off-screen commentary_ He's let himself down a bit on the hobbies – golf's not very popular around here!_ they arrived at a large, open and very, very dark space. One of the huge trolls was standing at the gate; it raised a hand in salute as Vimes passed.

"Hide Park" he said, by way of explanation. "I've got every spare Watchman here just in case your men try sneaking past them in the dark. I didn't miss the bit about you people being trained to operate by night!"

The night had the usual comforting feel; as they left a wide open grassed space and entered a small wood, Philip Holtack felt it would not be difficult at all to slip into the surrounding dark and be somewhere else very quickly. Slipping off the policemen in these trees would be _simplicity… _and then he heard the wolf howl. From very close. Vimes grinned at him. "Like I said. I _didn't_ miss the bit about you people being taught to escape and evade by night!"

"We did an exercise a year or two ago with the Assassins." Ping explained. "They had to evade us and we had to nick them. Taught a lot about working at night, that did!"1**(1)**

"So I see." Holtack remarked, watching a golden-maned dog of some kind that was keeping station with them in the trees and was watching him intently. Something about the dog's general demeanour suggested he should think twice about escape. Not that he'd ever contemplated it seriously: he suspected Lady Sybil had offered him a better prison camp than he deserved.

_Police dogs. Just my luck they use them. _

Eventually they were near the end of the tree line. Vimes glanced up, and said something about "baboons. Even though they're all gone now I still worry about one dropping on top of me from above."

Holtack forced the pace. Then, on the other side of the trees, a moon shining on water, a large lake. The silhouettes of huts on its shore were clearly visible. A light was on in one, which was the focal point of attention from quite a lot of Watchmen. The big red-haired captain stepped forward and saluted.

"Any progress, Carrot?" Vimes asked.

"They're all still in there, sir. Reg Shoe, two of the visitors, and Senior Park-Keeper Flowerdew. There have been no more _gon-shottes_, but Flowerdew's unconscious. Took a glancing hit. Reg says he's just out cold and breathing normally, though."

"Are they any keener to give themselves up?"

"They're holding tight, sir. Although Reg is in there, it's a warm night, and he's telling them all he thinks they should know about undead rights. I'm letting him soften them up, for now. Although Sally's on stand-by for going bats on them."

_Undead? _

Holtack held the question. It could wait. He was aware of the Sally Bowles lookalike, Constable Sally, grinning at him. He began humming "_Cabaret_", distractedly. To his surprise, she took up the refrain. Association of ideas made him wonder about the stockings, suspenders and a chair to pose on. Vimes gave him a long look, and muttered something about a Blue Cat Club.

"He isn't, Mr Vimes. I can smell it on a man!" Sally assured him. "_Life is a cabaret, old chum; come to the Cabaret!"_

"When you two have quite finished the duet…" Vimes said. He turned to Holtack.

"You're here to see if you can get up close and persuade those two men of yours to come out with their hands up. Apparently they're reluctant to come out because there are several counts of theft and assault we could book them for. If we were so minded. My guess is they just want a reassurance they'll be fairly treated, and if you can give it to them and sort this out so we can all get to bed, the happier I'll be."

"Theft and assault." mused Holtack. "Fusilier Powell?"

Vimes grinned.

"You've got one too, then? What's the betting he'll get on with our Nobby Nobbs? Assure them we'll look leniently on the theft if everything they, shall we say, _borrowed_, is returned to its owners. As for the assault, I did say I wanted to shake him by the hand, as it was one of my local villains who ended up on the receiving end. The moment Andy Shanks is out of hospital, he's in my cells!"

Holtack nodded.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Vimes demanded. "Get up there and do some talking to your men!"

_Heigh-ho… _ Holtack stepped forwards, the big captain falling into step with him. He sensed the golden-haired police dog trotting along on his right.

_Ah well… _he began humming._ "What good is sitting alone in your room, come, hear the music play! Life is a cabaret, old chum…" _

He heard a low, enthusiastic, voice from inside the hut.

"And did you know they had strict rules about where zombies could and could not go in the old days and the jobs we could take? After I died, the only place I could go was the mortuary…"

"well, obviously, mun, I can see that…" said Fusilier Powell, wearily.

"Nice steady supply of brains?" said Fusilier Williams, J.J., with a hint of suspicion.

"There you go _again_!" said the voice, with a hint of exasperation. "No form of eating is necessary. Strength of will keeps you going! And of all the bits of a human, I'm reliably told brains may be nutritious but they don't taste of very much…"

"Do you know, I'd be happier if somebody you know had not told you that." said Williams. "That kind of implies somebody you know has tried eating brains! Another zombie, was it?"

"No, no, NO! Accusing zombies of ravaging around eating people's brains is blatant speciesism, is that! Have you got that clear? It's GHOULS who eat brains! Mrs Drull down at the Fresh Start Club, she's a ghoul…"

Holtack listened from outside in appalled fascination. He fancied the police dog had snickered, like a better-brought up Muttley.

"Reg does go on." The red-haired captain apologised.

"No, I worked in the mortuary. Still had a body to keep together, didn't I? Even if the soul had upped and gone…"

"Reg?"

"Is that you, Mr Carrot?"

"It's me. Listen, you people inside. Mr Powell, Mr Williams? Captain Irronfoundersson of the City Watch. I'm here to ask you if you'd like to come put. The hut is surrounded and you really don't have a choice. Your commanding officer is with me."

Holtack took his cue.

"Powell, Williams. Do you recognise my voice?"

"Mr Holtack?"

"That's me. Whatever threw you over here threw me into this place as well. Three of us gave ourselves up to the city authorities. Me, Ruiterman and Boy Hughes. I'm here to tell you we've been well treated and we're under light custody. Not even imprisonment. If the two of you come out now you'll spend your first night in the cells, and I'm assuming the city ruler will interview you both in the morning. After that, we'll have to see. Look, you've both done fantastically well to stay on the run for this long, but there's really no need to continue. Besides, I hear there's a wounded man in there."

"And a dead man. Sir."

Holtack grimaced.

"I'm coming in. Point your rifles away from the door, if you please!"

Cautiously, he pushed open the shed door, Carrot following. He took in Williams and the villainous Powell, wearing unfamiliar civilian clothing. Both had their rifles closed to hand, and a bundle of bags and groundsheets signified where their uniforms were. A grey-skinned Watchman whose face suggested terminal anorexia nodded to the Captain. On the ground, the unconscious figure of Senior Park-Keeper Flowerdew snored happily. There was a large red contusion on one side of his head, and somebody had tried to make him comfortable with a blanket and pillow.

"Everything OK, Reg?" the captain asked.

"Yes, sir! I've had a long chat with my new friends here about the Undead. Do you _know, _sir_, _ they don't have zombies on their world? Can't blame them for not knowing, but somebody had to fill them in! I mean, all they know is a lot of lies and prejudice!"

"Reg, here, is technically dead, sir." said Powell, to Holtack. "And while he is a decent bloke and everything and he cannot help the way he is, the air in here _is_ a bit close."

Holtack took a breath. It was worse than the Shirt Factory. Or what the Shirt Factory might have smelt like if they'd had zombies. He decided the issue of how a dead man could be up and walking and able to rationalise intelligently could be set aside for the moment. _Deal with the important things first. _

"OK. So I'd say first priority is to get this injured chap out and into a blood-wagon, don't you think?"

"You're sure, sir? He's the parky round these parts. Might be better off unconscious, as he was going on a bit!"

Holtack glanced at Carrot, who was suddenly looking completely poker-faced as he assessed the injury.

"That's a nasty knock on the head." he remarked, conversationally. "Although a knock to the head shouldn't have done Mr Flowerdew _that_ great an amount of damage."

Carrot looked up, and added, with a very straight face, "Park-keepers are hardy people, after all."

"Care to tell me how it was done?" Holtack inquired, looking the two Fusiliers in the eye by turns. Williams looked away evasively. Looking down onto a relatively clear patch of floorboards, he spotted it: a spent baton round, five inches of inert plastic sledgehammer. _There have been no more gon-shottes. _ He noticed Carrot registering it too.

"Dear me, Williams. You were the one with the riot gun, weren't you? Looks like a negligient discharge to me!"

Williams reddened.

"We'll clear it up later." he said, scooping up the round. It weighed surprisingly heavy, for what it was. _I'm in no position to impose a fine or a charge right now._

"This is what hit your park-keeper, I'm afraid." he said to Carrot. "One of our weapons discharges these as a non-lethal alternative to a bullet."

Carrot nodded, taking the baton from Holtack.

"I can see how it works, I think, sir." He said. "Thank you for being so open."

Holtack felt tiredness welling up again.

"Let's get this wrapped, shall we, Captain? Soonest over, soonest we're all in bed. I suggest we get Williams and Powell out of here first, then your men can pick up the casualty and get him to hospital. I wouldn't rule out a fractured skull, maybe concussion."

Carrot went to the door and had a conversation with Watchmen outside. Holtack reminded Powell and Williams that while the police here might only be equipped with crossbows and the flak-jackets they were wearing might _just_ prevent a bolt from penetrating too far, were they in a hurry to try that out? Better make the weapons safe and carry them out in a non-threatening way. Captain Carrot, you've seen the guns up close, will you confirm they're now disarmed and safe? Thank you. I'll follow on behind with your kit – it's all bundled up here in the groundsheets? - and then the police can get a medical team in. Ready? Go!

And so two more Fusiliers surrendered to the civil power. By the following day, all six would be accounted for.

Williams and Powell walked out proudly, weapons at the high port, aware of a lot of crossbow bolts pointing at them, not the least of which was Sergeant Detritus' personal weapon, the Piecemaker. Detritus had needed to be persuaded from resolving the problem by a direct hit on Flowerdew's hut: he had been convinced that with Flowerdew and Reg Shoe in there, it would not be a good idea. Carrot had borrowed the services of a temporary Igor from somewhere to cover for the Watch Igor, who was recovering after major restorative surgery. Igor was in the hut assessing Flowerdew's injuries, and Reg was currently the hero of the day among Watchmen.

If Holtack had hoped he could get back to bed, he was disappointed. Operations in the Park having finished, he was taken back to the Yard alongside Williams and Powell, now back in their uniforms, to be present at their initial questioning and debriefing and to advocate on their behalf with Vimes. He realised he had a duty to his men; he could hardly argue with this.

Ponder Stibbons had been rousted from his bed at the University to act as technical advisor again; Holtack noticed the keen red-haired Assassin was with him, the South African one _no, not right. Howondalandian. _She also looked tired and bed-rumpled, and from the body language between her and Stibbons, Holtack speculated that it might well have been the same bed. He grinned: Ponder had hidden depths, then. And lots of women are turned on by intellectual men. Or Albert Einstein would not have had his late-flowering thing with Monroe. This was good: he suspected his future depended on Ponder Stibbons, and knowing him to be rooted in everyday normality and capable of keeping a girlfriend spoke volumes for the boffin's ability to function at normal levels.

At last it was all over.

The riot control gun attracted attention among the policemen: its purpose had been explained and a baton round had been passed from hand to hand for close examination. Vimes himself had lifted the gun to his shoulder and sighted it.

"So you aim it a little way in front of a group of rioters. Then you squeeze the trigger. And one of those rubber bullet things bounces off the ground and randomly hits the unlawful assembly and bounces around like a self-propelled truncheon…"

A slight grin passed across Vimes' face as he passed the weapon to a corporal for exhibit on the table behind. Nobby Nobbs took it with a huge grin on his face.

"And the reason why you bounce them off the ground first is mainly to burn off some surplus force, and take away any lingering chance they could impact with lethal impact…_put that bloody weapon __**down**__, Nobby, and stop making "bang-bang!" noises! _But you didn't bother with that with Andy Shanks, did you?"

Reminded of the fight they'd had within minutes of landing in Ankh-Morpork, Williams grinned sheepishly. "Him? Big scar-faced psycho? Reckoned he could stand a direct hit, sir!"

At this point, Vimes stepped from behind the desk and shook each Fusilier by the hand.

"I _said_ I was going to do this. Bloody well done!"

Holtack relaxed. He suspected there'd definitely be curry in it for these two soldiers. Possibly even paid for personally by Vimes.

"I'll try to get you off the theft charges. The assault charge against Shanks and his gang is already scrubbed. Legitimate self-defence, as far as I'm concerned. Assault on Flowerdew, he's the parkie you laid out, might be considered a bit more serious."

"Misadventure, sir?" Carrot suggested.

"Good idea, Captain! While it's never wise to anticipate His Lordship, I suspect the Patrician will be as lenient to you two as he was to the other three. And after that – well, I will say I always need good Watchmen. If you're all stuck in this town for a while, maybe even for good, you'll need jobs and I'm in a position to offer them. Now neither of you are under arrest. This is protective custody. Do you understand the term? To – _yesterday_, there was a lot of hysteria in the city about aliens and _visitors._ You might have been lynched at one point. I'm not taking that risk, so you get a cell each. Food and drink will be provided."

"Do _not_ drink the water!" Holtack warned them. "At least, not straight out of that river! Get it boiled first!"

Vimes gave him a long look. Ponder Stibbons said "Sir, remember what Dr Lawn said about our water, and what it might do to somebody from another world who isn't used to it!"

Vimes nodded understanding.

"OK, so it's the Patrician at eleven, Sergeant Pessimal, will you sort this clothing and blankets against the theft reports from the Soak and Nonesuch? , you two lads had better get some sleep in, march 'em off, Fred."

The amiable fat sergeant and another Watchman marched them out. Holtack reflected, gloomily, on another session with Machiavelli tomorrow – _later_ - , this time defending his men. He noticed the red-haired Assassin had slipped out of her seat and was examining the impounded weapons critically. He walked over to her as she lifted the riot-control gun to her shoulder – _not bad for an untutored first attempt_, he observed. _But then, this woman taught Jocasta_.

"If I can advise, miss?" he said, diffidently, aware he was in the presence of a trained professional killer and treading gently.

She nodded at him.

"I think I perceive how it works." she said. "The tube aims the weapon. The dangerous part is this separate piece here. Which fits into the chamber, yesno, end is locked into place by closing this bolt." She held up but did not load one of the surrendered baton rounds.

"I suspect this metal cylinder contains an exothermic alchemy charge. This explodes, but the gonne is designed to propel the truncheon forwards et great speed end power. Woe betide enyone the projected truncheon strikes!"

Holtack was impressed: she'd figured it all out in one go. _Exothermic Alchemy. Their word for "explosives"? _

She carried on, her voice intent and South African, all "a's" flattened to "e's" and guttural rolled "r's".

"I cen see _epplications_ for this weapon, Liutnant!" she said, excitedly. "For instence. Instead of a truncheon, what if it is replaced by a lightweight grepnel etteched to a rope? It cen throw the grapnel higher up a wall or a cliff face than a human cen. Once the hook is lodged, you mey then climb up the etteched rope!"

Holtack, impressed, said

"Similar weapons have been used that way, miss. Our special forces, the commandos, have used that technique to attack up cliffs and mountain faces."

"They are celled _kommandos_?" she inquired. He reflected that it was a South African word, originally.

"We picked up the word from fighting in South Africa, miss. It was adopted in tribute to a very capable enemy who frankly ran rings round us."

He realised the judges in her eyes were holding up at least eights: her smile was unforced and genuine.

"I served with such a special kommando myself." she said. "It was where I learned to fight. And we are good, Liutnant. _Very_ good!"

She put the gun down.

"I think I understand a little more ebout _gonnes_ now." she said. "I cen see the potential, elthough to to be honest I would prefer it if the _verdammte _thing did not try to _telk_ to me!"

There it was again, that assertion, from an otherwise sane person, that the guns _talk_ to people…Holtack blinked, and steered conversation away.

"I believe I met your uncle and aunt last night. The Ambassador and his wife."

"Ag. I must speak to them! They hev sent messeges for me to the Guild. How are they?"

He explained his meeting of earlier that evening. Johanna nodded. "Onkle Pieter would find you interesting, I think. He is a good man, but sometimes even I have to remember he is, first, a diplomat!"

He caught the subtext: _Be careful what you say. _ Then she changed the subject.

"My friend Ellice Band was consternated by you. I cen affirm she hes the birthmarks high on the inside of her left thigh, es you described them, but the question is, how did you know thet? We are not normally in the hebit of showing casual acquaintances the inside of our thighs, _liutnant. _I understand the length of a skirt is a lot shorter at your time in your world, and women habitually display more leg, but surely even the Ellice Band on your world would not be in the hebit of displaying her thighs to everyone?"

"Swimming costumes, miss. Like leotards – do you have those? – but worn without leg coverings."

Johanna's mouth O'd with horror. Or at least, startlement.

"On your world, women swim elmost naked? In the presence of _men_? "

"It's practical. The HEX machine, the one you use to see into my world. I understand you're a registered researcher. Ask it to show you women's swimwear in the late twentieth century?"

"I think I will…" she said, still surprised.

A Watchman tapped Holtack on the shoulder. It turned out to be Sally Bowles out of Cabaret, the one with the toothy grin.

"Mr Vimes says "thank you". There's a cab outside to take you back to Ramkin Manor. I'll escort you".

He said goodnights to Johanna and Ponder, and followed Sally down to the cab. Tomorrow - _today_ – would be – _actually is_ – Monday. Heigh-ho. Another day in a strange new world…

1 **(1) **See my story _**The Graduation Class. **_


	40. Putting the bite on

_**Slipping Between Worlds – 40**_

Under the escort of the petite and wiry Constable Sally, Holtack got to the coach that was waiting outside the Watch House. He wondered about the snortles and the muttered background comment of "Don't play with your food!" as they left. He knew the sort of jokes private soldiers indulged in, when they felt they could get away with it, or if they had privileged information about a situation that their officer patently lacked; he suspected there was some nuance to the situation that he just wasn't seeing. Unless it was an in-joke about the policewoman's Goth mode of dress and makeup, like some sort of Hammer Horrors vampire…

Sally grinned at him as the thought of Ingrid Pitt and Valerie Leon, dressed for the kill, crossed his mind. He could have sworn her smile had something ironic, or at the very least sardonic, about it.

She sat opposite him in the coach as it drew off….west?... across the noxious river.

_What fantasies the man has, _she thought. _Does he really think all vampires look like that, all low-cut lacy nighties and lots of décolletage? And if he thinks we all have 38DD bras, here's a man who's going to be seriously disappointed when he finds out. _

She probed a little further. _He can't be blamed for the ideas he's got from cheap tacky entertainment. And good Gods, are there really no vampires on his world? Does he really believe we don't exist outside folk legend? Well, then, Salacia __Delorisista Amanita Trigestrata Zeldana__ , it's your __**positive**__ duty to put him right and re-educate him…_

She twiddled, thoughtfully, with the loop of black ribbon she wore on her left collar. Holtack had seen those before, on the waitresses at the Café Necros coffeebar. To break the silence, he asked

"That black ribbon. Is that some sort of membership badge? A club, or a society?"

She grinned one of her toothy grins.

"It means I belong, certainly. Wearing it makes a few things easier in this city."

He noted her slightly German… _Überwaldean_… accent. _Some sort of recognition label the local boxheads__**(1)**__ use in this city? That blonde sergeant had a hint of Still to her accent as well._

She was still watching him as the coach drew near to the gates of Ramkin Manor. He recognised the route: across the River and along King's Way, then sharp right onto Scoone Avenue. He noted the gates opening with a faint creak, but hadn't heard the coachman get down off the box. Sally explained.

"The gargoyles on top of each gate post are trained to recognise a friendly coach and they operate the gate mechanism. You are familiar with gargoyles? Like a smaller and more intelligent troll. They also raise an alarm if intruders are trying to get in. Mr Vimes had them installed to put off Assassins when he was having all the bother with them."

"I met one at the Palace" Holtack explained. "Only that was a cherub."

Sally gave him a very penetrating look and a half-smile.

"Philip, you are going to meet a lot of strange people in this city. A _lot. _And take it from me, there will be stranger and weirder than gargoyles and cherubs!"

_She's hinting at something and leaving me to fill in the gaps._ he thought. _But I've had a long trying day and too little sleep and I've been woken up once and the old brain is refusing to function._

"Don't try to escape, now" she counselled him, as they got out of the coach. "That's why Mr Vimes wants you escorted, he thinks you're too tricky by half."

It was Holtack's turn to give her a long hard look, as they stood in the light of the coaching lamps and the doorway lamp of Ramkin Manor.

"Sally, is there anything I should know about you?" he asked, deciding to be direct.

She smiled up at him, Sally Bowles out of _**Cabaret**_ again.

"There's a lot I'd like you to know about me! Where do we start…"

Without warning, she moved in. Holtack didn't see her move: all he knew was that she'd backed him up against one of the unyielding stone pillars supporting the portico of Ramkin Manor. Her arms were around him, one of her hands was guiding and steering the back of his head into a fierce kiss, and one of her legs was pushing up between his in a very unambiguous way.

_Christ! She's strong! _he thought, knowing it would be very difficult to break her grip. He wasn't sure if he wanted to: it was as if a voice was whispering in his head _do not fight this. You know you want to. Resistance is futile. _It all felt wonderfully, light-headedly, seductive.

Somebody coughed.

It was the butler, Willikins. _Does this man ever sleep? _

"Would Sir like to return to his quarters now?" Willikins enquired.

Sally reluctantly released her grip on Holtack.

"I'll see you again very soon!" she promised. "Some night not too long from now!"

"You perhaps have a patrol to resume, Constable?" Willikins said, pointedly.

"Got to go!" Sally said to Holtack. "I can't go where I've not been invited, unfortunately." Her eyes flickered to Willikins, as if to indicate that his invitation, and not Holtack's , was the one that mattered. "But it's a date, right?"

"It's a date!" he agreed, and she blew a kiss. Then she got onto the footplate of the coach with the grinning police driver, and they were off.

Willikins quietly escorted Holtack back to his room, saying only that Lady Sybil had decided to make a late-night visit to the university for some help and advice. In accordance with normal protocol, he was therefore bound to be up to receive Her Ladyship home, and had therefore been on hand to receive Sir back from assisting the Watch in their inquiries.

"All your men are now accounted for, Sir?"

"Yes. They've all reported in."

Willikins nodded, with satisfaction.

"Sir will therefore be needed at the Palace again later. I will see you receive a late breakfast in your room in good time for your interview with His Lordship. As sleep is necessary, I would caution you to keep your bedroom window firmly closed tonight."

"Is anyone likely to climb in?" Holtack asked.

"They may seek to enter, sir. By _whatever_ means. Goodnight, Sir."

Holtack, puzzled, fell into bed and a deep sleep punctuated by a vivid dream of Valerie Leon, all heavy sixties' eye makeup, 38DD décolletage and vampire teeth, flying in through a shattered window. As her teeth approached his neck, he thought he could hear Sally sniggering…

And elsewhere in the city, other people slept.

The Canting Crew slept under the Brass Bridge, a happy Mrs Tachyon having joined forces with them. Her shopping trolley was safely hidden in their midst, guarded by Guilty the cat, who occasionally awoke to cast a baleful cat glare at Gaspode. Foul Ol'Ron snored next to her, and the other members of the Crew had retired to their various cardboard and old canvas "bedrooms".

Sergeant Williams slept, aware of being under open arrest and trusting in the sanity of those around him to get him a fair deal at his court martial – he couldn't help but think of it like that – the next morning. At least he'd be able to wear his proper uniform to it…

"Head-Butt" Powell and Fusilier J.J. Williams slept, fortified by the rather good curry the genial Sergeant Colon had got for them. As Holtack and the others had found out the previous night, a Watch cell was luxury, compared to the accommodation at the Shirt Factory.

Fusiliers Ruijterman and Hughes also slept, in the single watchman's quarters provided for them at the Lemonade Factory. The next morning, they were due, at Captain Carrot's personal request, to deliver some tuition to City Watchmen in dealing with a new and unfamiliar weapon.

And the Provisional IRA's sole member of the Ankh-Morpork Brigade also slept, in a working mens' hostel provided for Hergenian labourers, a long bag clutched close to him under the blankets and tied to his wrist for safety. Tomorrow, he started a legitimate job as part of the construction crew building a church.

Lady Sybil Ramkin, after some late-night thought, had taken a coach to the University. Flanked by a couple of very burly footmen who Willikins had delegated to her security, she had swept into the High Energy Magic building demanding an audience with HEX. Ponder Stibbons had long since retired to bed, and since Johanna Smith-Rhodes was known to have retired to the same bed, none of the lesser wizards or senior students present dared risk annoying an Assassin in a situation where she felt she might justly expect a degree of personal privacy.

Therefore, Adrian Turnipseed, Ponder's junior, had taken the situation in hand by escorting Sybil to a research cubicle and a private omniscope, through which she had introduced herself to HEX, and proposed that he help her with some research.

++How may I assist, Lady Sybil?++

"I need some tailoring patterns. I'm assuming on the Roundworld they do tailoring and do patterns that our tailors can read? Good. There's a young man I need to dress and he only brought one set of clothes with him!"

After an hour or so, Sybil left with a sheaf of downloaded and copied plans, the information that Gievens and Hawke were an approved military tailors' in London, and research material showing the completed clothing, including a facsimile copy of the full-colour photo-special _Military Modelling Special Edition: Modern British Army Uniforms._

She smiled graciously at HEX, wished him a good night, and set off for the all-night tailoring shops around Cunning Artificers with an urgent job.

Eventually she returned to her bed. Willikins saw her home, and gratefully retired to his, delegating the under-butler to oversee breakfast in the morning.

And in a high tower room at the Guild of Assassins, two other people slept, having earlier had a cautious conversation, each party knowing there was room for misunderstanding and bad feeling if the chosen words were not exactly _right._

Jocasta Wiggs snuggled close against her mentor and lover, Alice Band, who had sensed a different note in the air and a subtle change in the harmonics of their relationship. Alice had sensed that Jocasta had distanced herself a little and wasn't as close as she had been. Alice was insecure enough to wonder if this was the prelude to a break-up, and was saddened by it, but wondered how she could broach the issue.

"Anything wrong, Cass?" she had asked, with uncharacteristic diffidence. Alice was not monogamous; Jocasta was one of three current lovers.**(2) **This didn't mean Alice was opportunist or predatory or disrespectful: any of the three who was with her could expect her complete attention and adoration so long as they were together. Each of the three knew of the existence of the other two, and there was surprisingly little jealousy and no animosity between them. For all her surface coldness and cynicism, Alice would have been deeply saddened to lose any one of them, and she feared this might happen.

She wrapped her arms tighter around Jocasta.

"Is it him? The alien?" she probed, gently.

Jocasta nodded.

"There's something about him" she said, thoughtfully. "Alice, I don't want to lose you, and ever since I was fifteen I thought I was one hundred per cent gay, but…"

Alice smiled, sadly.

"Nobody's ever one hundred per cent gay. Or straight." she said. "I've had moments of wondering, and you have to be made of marble if an especially good-looking man passes by. It's never been so important to me as to want to do anything about it. Besides, in a place like this men are still in the majority and you see them _exactly_ as they are. Ever seen the inside of a male dorm?"

She shuddered.

"The best of them are like big lolloping un-house-trained puppies and the worst are unspeakable. On those very few occasions I've looked at a man and found him sexually attractive – and it does happen – I tend to find asking myself if I could share an actual _bed _with him does the trick. Uggh!"

Jocasta felt the shudder doing delicious things so close to her, and giggled.

"But you're nineteen, Cass. I'm thirty-three. It's pretty much _engrained_ in me now. I'm Alice Band, I may not be fully out but I'm proud, and I prefer girls. With you, I'm bound to say that since age eleven, you've been in what amounts to an all-women environment. Outside in the wider School you were taught alongside boys, you worked with them, you studied with them. But the bedspace you slept in, the washrooms you used, the intimate space, was all-female. It's only now, after leaving school, that you get to see more of men."

Alice sighed.

"I really hate to have to say this and the words stick in my throat. But at nineteen, I'd be failing in my responsibility to you to say – well, maybe you should get out there and experiment. Prove to yourself you are, at heart, gay and not interested in boys. If that means trying a heterosexual relationship for a while to see what it feels like – well then, you should. You're an Assassin, anyway, like me. And one of the maxims in the Concordat is "know yourself – before somebody else without your best interests at heart gets to know you."

Alice sighed again.

"And I'll always be here for you, Cass." she said.

Jocasta, a traitorous thought about Philip Holtack crossing her mind, smiled.

"Thank you. Alice. Look, I'm taking a Wilderness Survival class out for a week from tomorrow. That's going to be like a retreat into the desert. Thinking time."

"Use it wisely!"

They kissed.

And eventually they slept, Alice concerned there were not going to be many more nights like this.

* * *

**(1) **Apologies to German readers. "_Boxhead_" is a derivation of the earlier wartime "_squarehead_" pejorative used by British service personnel to describe Germans. Apparently the General Officer Commanding of Britiah forces in West Germany put out an angry memo noting that thirty years after the end of hostilities, British soldiers were still insulting local Germans by using the pejorative word "squarehead" and ordered that it must stop. Within weeks, "squarehead" had mutated into "boxhead", and some advanced thinkers were referring to civilian and military Germans "_stills_". When asked why, the reply was invariably "_because they're still squareheads, sir"_. Sorry about this.

**(2) **Not counting a Seamstress Alice had a long-standing professional arrangement with.


	41. Monday morning

_**Slipping Between Worlds – 41**_

And it was Monday morning.

The rain the wizards had had no difficulty in summoning the previous afternoon was still coming down. This was in keeping with the Well-Known-Fact that once you _start_ something, then what do you know, it keeps on happening. _Stopping_ it is a far more difficult proposition. The Guild of Meteorologists had already drafted a letter of protest to the Patrician about infringed demarcation, that and the fact their forecast of a long dry sunny weekend had been made to look silly by magical intervention.

Holtack was gently shaken awake and swam up through the levels of sleep to see a grinning footman, one of the sort who clearly relished striking such a minor victory in the ongoing class war between servants and served.

He remembered he was a guest at Ramkin Manor, then recalled he'd had his sleep disturbed by a call to assist the Watch with their enquiries. With a sinking heart, he realised he was due at the Palace again to advocate for his remaining three soldiers, and recollected that one, his platoon sergeant of all people, was a technical deserter, whilst God knew what crimes "Head-Butt" Powell had committed in a new and strange city.

"Unnnngh…" he said, sitting up.

"Half-past eight, sir" said the footman. "There's a bath ready for you. Then Her Ladyship's got something for you that she wants you to see."

"No Willikins this morning?" Holtack asked, vaguely recognising the footman who had assisted the butler in taking his measurements the previous night. He dredged up a name.

"Matkin, isn't it?"

"Glad you remembered, sir! Mr Willikins is excused duties this morning as he was up so late, but I'm appointed to be your personal valet."

Matkin grinned in an ingratiating _If you can remember my name, sir, you can give a good tip _sort of way. Holtack recalled this was standard at the sort of grand country places, family seats for his more upper-crust Sandhurst contemporaries whose families could afford to pay servants. He'd had the ordeal of staying at one or two.

"If you'll nip through and take your bath, sir, I'll tidy your uniform." Matkin said.

Holtack sighed.

He recalled that he was not terribly good at servants.

Lying in the bath, he recalled an episode from early on in his Army career. The Regiment had been preparing for a full-dress parade and review of its colours by an Exceedingly Senior Royal Prince and his dazzling new Princess, who was still all bright and shiny and straight out of the box. It had been decreed that officers of the colour party should wear full-dress uniforms, which meant a scarlet and blue uniform that had gone out of fashion sometime between Waterloo and the Crimean War, together with sword. Affected officers had been measured up, and for those too poor to afford a uniform they might wear perhaps a dozen times in an Army career, the kit had been rented off-the-peg from a military tailors. Ceremonial busbies had been scrounged up from God-knows where and fitted, and the swords had been broken out of some Armoury or other and issued to officers who had never seen them before. The Regimental Sergeant-Major had scrounged up the seldom-touched volume of the drill manual that covered Ceremonial Sword Drill For Officers, and had been delivering instruction in the moves and evolutions involved in manipulating two feet of surprisingly sharp steel and saluting with it, without inadvertently pushing it up a nostril and tearing one's nose off.

Holtack had discovered the scabbard, hanging from the belt by two floppy lengths of leather, presented problems all of its own. To wit, it had a tendency to flop about while marching and trip you up, a failing the RSM remarked upon in the guarded dry wit he used for dealing with junior officers who he considered to be idiots.

"_Come along now, Mr Holtack, many generations of British Army Officers wore a sword every day and learnt to march with it without falling flat on their own faces, now!"_

_Yes, but they wore swords every day in an era where everyone wore a sword, _Holtack thought, _back when these things were cutting-edge military technology._

Leaning back in the bath, he shuddered again.

_And the sword is de riguer here in this strange place. All the Assassins I've met wear them as part of the uniform. People all know how to use them to one level of proficiency or another, just like everyone at home knows something about guns. And all I know is how to salute a Prince with one, without splitting either my – or his – nostrils open. I'm going to have to learn, and I'm afraid so are the lads. But who can I get to teach me and how much does it cost? Better ask Jocasta. I fear being able to wear it and walk at the same time without the damn scabbard tripping me up is going to be not nearly enough._

The servant Matkin had appeared in the bathroom. Holtack had met Nobby nobbs of the Watch: he reflected on a certain kinship of demeanour and expression between Nobbs and Matkin, although he had to concede the footman was more smartly turned out and perhaps had a cigarette end lodged out of sight underneath his wig. He thought it was the crab-like sidle that clinched the deal, that and the calculating expresion that was weighing up how much he could take the young gentleman for.

"Will Sir require his back scrubbing or his hair washing?"

"No, thank you, Matkin."

Matkin produced an evil-looking cut-throat razor.

"Sir will consent to a shave?" he asked. Holtack shuddered, then sighed.

Holtack, reasoning that a footman in the employ of a big house would not deliberately cut his throat, and must have demonstrated some proficiency in shaving other people to be allowed to do it at all, suffered himself to be shaved, keeping his head very, very, still.

_My own manservant…._

Another memory of the big ceremonial parade surfaced.

After an hour or so of being genially shouted at by the RSM, and noting just how many Fusiliers had found an excuse to watch their officers tripping over their scabbards, Holtack had gratefully returned to his quarters, wanting a few moments alone with his near-humiliation. Where he had found…

"Nice evening, isn't it, sir?" Fusilier Jenkins had genially said, from the ironing board where he was working on Holtack's uniform. Holtack had nodded, replied in the affirmative, then raced round to his company commander, Captain Tim Endion-Williams, who he found standing there in his shirt-tails and cheerfully berating a Nine Platoon fusilier for making a mess of the crease in his trousers.

Tim had lifted an interrogative eyebrow.

"Er, Tim…" Holtack had said, unsure of how to proceed. "I appear to have acquired a Fusilier who is pressing my trousers…"

"Yes. You've got a batman. Same as the rest of us." Tim had said. "And your point is?"

"Well…er.. I thought all that sort of thing went out with the Army reforms twenty years ago, and we're expected to press our own trousers?"

Tim shook his head, wearily.

"Philip, Philip, Philip. My dear Socialist-voting subaltern. I can see you're not at home with this, are you?"

The Fusilier pressing Tim's trousers turned to unsuccessfully disguise the fact his shoulders were shaking with mirth.

"Listen to me, Philip. We're gearing up for a big brass-and-bullshit parade where everything has to be immaculate. We're doing just _once_ what the Brigade of Guards does every day. In the presence of Royalty who take their standards from the Woodentops. Because we're not used to this sort of thing, and all officers have got extra duties to attend to as well as full dress, the Colonel considers that just this once, we're entitled to a bit of help and he's resurrected the old custom of the soldier-servant. They're all volunteers, if it helps. Even Alice has got one, and she's giving her girl merry Hell right now for, I don't know, not ironing her bra straps flat, or something."

Tim grinned.

"The men selected for the job get privileges, like seeing the squalor we live in, and you will find a modest tip at the end might ease your social conscience about it."

"How much?" Holtack asked, contemplating a bank account with not nearly enough in it.

"Oh, two tenners should do it, sir!" the ironing Fusilier said, cheerfully.

"You'll get _ten_, you robbing article!" Tim said, firmly.

"Don't let them rob you or take advantage of your good nature" Tim warned. "Anything more than a tenner for two evenings' light work spoils them. Was that everything?"

And Holtack, holding very still while Matkin did the tricky bit just under the nose, reflected that this had been the making of him as an officer. Painfully new to the Regiment, he had stepped across the invisible line into full acceptance from Seven Platoon when Fusilier Jenkins, in the course of his duties as batman (and not out of idle curiosity as to what was in his officer's pockets) had found…

Holtack's mind went back still further. The Careers Master at school, Mr Griffiths, seeing him and several other fifth-formers in the summer term, just after O-Levels. Griffiths, a peppery man from South Wales, had glared at them all over his bifocals.

"I'm not going to mess around and I will come straight to the point." he said. "You boys are bloody well privileged. What am I saying, you already _are_ privileged. You attend a fee-paying boarding school, you are all from well-off families, and even at the age of sixteen you all have good careers mapped out before you."

Holtack sat back, tired of trying to point out that just because he and Griffiths were from the same country, it did not confer any advantage to him – indeed, as Mr Griffiths was from South Wales and he, Holtack, was from the North, it was quite the opposite.

"You are all privileged over and above that. You, Mathews, are going into the family merchant bank. You, Randall-Stevenson, have already passed the entrance exam to Cambridge and will be completing A-levels a year ahead, and then on to Caius College. You, Rawlinson, have been accepted by the Royal Navy, and you, Holtack, appear to be on track for Sandhurst. Therefore my job as a careers officer is redundant with you. But what concerns me is that you will leave this school with no bloody idea as to how the majority live or what they have to do by way of earning a living. And there is pressure on the public schools to be more socially aware and socially inclusive."

Holtack sat up. Experience in the Army Cadets had taught him that when somebody in a position of authority is talking like this, it will invariably mean bad news for somebody.

Griffiths grinned.

"That's why I've organised work experience for the four of you." he said. "To give you a little taster, see, and for you to be doing something worthwhile and productive now your exams are done and you are still on the strength of this School, waiting for the results. I've arranged for you to see industry. Isn't that nice of me?"

He stood back with a sadistic little grin, and then briefed them on which bit of industry was prepared to offer four public schoolboys work experience.

And so the four of them had arrived at Needham's Iron Foundry and Steelworks, a feature of the landscape in the northern English town where they had been educated.

"It can't be that bad" Perry Mathews had said, uncertainly. "Maybe they'll give us nice easy work in the offices or something."

They had been met by a wiry grinning Welshman, who said his friend Gwylim Griffiths usually sent him a few likely lads at this time of year to lick into shape.

And so Perry Mathews and Philip Holtack had ended up as junior shotblasters, one of the hottest and dirtiest jobs a steelworks has to offer.

"We always gives this to the lads, as they is so much more agile and nimble than we are!" Mr Davies had explained. Holtack had set to, knowing that to complain would be useless and counter-productive.

And now, six years further on, Fusilier Jenkins picked up the ISTC membership card Holtack had had to sign up to enter the steelworks' closed shop. He'd never thrown the union card away and had kept it, out of sentiment and respect for the men he'd spent not just one, but three, summers' working with. Steel got into the blood…

Jenkins looked at it with wonderment.

"You're a _union man_, sir? You've worked in a steelworks? Well, I never…"

After that. Seven Platoon, partly drawn from the iron and coal belt of Flintshire and Denbighshire (with a few strays from elsewhere in Wales), and from the Liverpool docks, had treated their officer differently.

After the big parade, and a return to normal training, Holtack led Seven Platoon on a force march through the Beacons. As usual, the platoon sang. Holtack dreaded this. He'd already picked up a rebuke from the colonel for the time when Seven Platoon had marched to the tune of The Holiday Home Song – within listening range of a very senior officer's wife who owned a second home in a jolly nice part of Wales.

_We'll burn all your carpets, we'll burn down the stairs;_

_We'll burn all the tables and set light to your chairs; _

_We'll get you for treating Welsh homes as your spares_

_In your holiday home! _

But this time it was

_As a union man I'm wise  
To the lies of the company spies  
And I don't get fooled  
By the factory rules  
'Cause I always read between the lines._

_And I always get my way_  
_If I strike for higher pay_  
_When I show my card_  
_To the Scotland Yard_  
_This_

_is what I say..._

And, all Welsh voices swelling to the joyously defiant chorus:-

**_Oh, you don't get me, I'm part of the union!_**  
**_You won't get me, I'm part of the union!_**  
**_You don't get me, I'm part of the union!_**  
**_Till the day I die, till the day I die!_**

It had, in fact, become Seven Platoon's marching anthem. Even the Colonel, who saw everything, condoned it, warning Holtack not to let them sing THAT one anywhere near General Rogerson and his wife, either. Taking the point, Holtack, with the aid of Sergeant Williams, worked out where on the march route they would be audible to a locally-resident General; and the sergeant, by his own influence, got them to sing a hymn or two along that stretch to ensure there would be no complaints.**(1)**

With Matkin finished, Holtack pushed down a mingled wave of warmth and regret at the memories, and went to get dressed. On cue, Matkin appeared and brushed his uniform down.

"Got to look your best in front of the Patrician, sir" he said. Then, in a calculating voice, he added:

"You're new to this town, sir? If you need any help and advice, don't hesitate to call on me!"

_New to this world, _thought Holtack. He sensed the dollar signs in the man's eyes.

"Thanks. I may well do that." he said, to keep the footman on side. "Who do you know who gives lessons in using a sword?"

Matkin pondered for a moment.

"Plenty of gentleman's academies around for that sort of thing, sir. I'll have a think, ask around. Maybe an Assassin might give private lessons, sir? Don't you learn that in your Army, anyway?"

"Up to a point, Matkin. Up to a point." _And I'd rather it not be the point on somebody else's sword, thank you very much._

Breakfast was pleasingly basic and appeared to have been turned out by a very indifferent cook. Holtack helped himself to only slightly burnt toast, a fried egg with the least broken yolk, and bacon without too many black bits encrusted to it. He filled in with cereals from the packet, noting that at least the milk was fresh and ice-cold, and watched Sam Vimes macerating his way through the overcooked crispy bacon with every sign of enjoyment. Sybil watched them eat, contentment on her face.

"Cooked every bit myself" she said. "Just how Sam likes it, bless him!"

Vimes grinned.

"She knows my sort of breakfast." he said. "_Another_ bowl of cornflakes? I'd be careful there, those things aren't good for you!"

Sam Vimes was dressed for Watch duties, although the under-butler had tried to force a scarlet cloak and a plumed ceremonial helmet at him, which sat unregarded on a spare chair. His battered and dull patrol helmet, however, was within easy reach.

"They keep trying to force the bloody plumes on me." he said, conversationally. "And that red thing is no bloody good when you're trying to blend in. Besides, bloody Havelock knows he's only ever going to see me in my working clothes. I have to break off whatever I'm doing to see the man every other day, after all. And speaking of helmets. That one you were wearing the other day when you dropped in. That and that clever protective jacket. Hope you don't mind, but I ran them round to Boult and Lockes to see if they can replicate them for my Watchmen. If they can, I suppose your Government owns the copyright . But apart from you, I don't see any British Government representatives around here, so I suppose if we build three hundred to the same pattern, you'll have to handle the licence fees on behalf of. Say a couple of dollars on each one?"

"Five per cent?" Holtack suggested. _Interesting idea. We imported useful technology to this world. If they take it up, the Regimental Benevolent Fund can benefit. And at the moment, I'm the highest rank on this planet. And I have five pay packets to find._

"Done! And speaking of Boult and Lockes, Sybil's been busy."

"So I hear" Holtack said, reaching with appreciative disbelief for a familiar-looking black glass jar with a yellow lid.

_Glory be! Marmite! _

He looked at the jar.

_Well. Vegemite, anyway. _

He picked the least burnt slice of toast and set about spreading.

"When you've finished that, better wash your hands, I think!" Sybil said. Don't want you making mucky marks on your new clothes!"

"What, already?" Holtack asked, interested.

Sybil nodded.

"We've got some jolly good clever tailors. And they're open all night!"

Holtack finished his marmite toast. On cue, a maid brought a bowl of hot water, soap and a towel. Rising from her seat, Sybil said "I spoke to Mr HEX at the University. He got me the patterns and some reference books from your world. All I had to do was to run them round to the all-night schmatter shops on Cunning Artificiers, and then to Boult and Locke, the military headwear people."

Two footmen entered, pushing and pulling a full rail of clothing. Several maids brought hat-boxes into the room. Holtack looked down at a table covered in books and magazines.

_The Military Modelling guide to British Army uniforms? _

It was a full colour photographic magazine over a hundred pages, showing models wearing the full panoply of all uniforms currently issued to the British Army, divided by type, purpose, regiment and corps. A second section dealt with Regimental cap-badges and distinctions. . The date was jarring to Holtack: _1997?_ Twelve years ahead of his time?

Leafing through it, he was reassured to see lots of photographs of familiar uniforms, although with very minor differences of cut and tailoring in some instances – _it won't change much in the next twelve years, then. _He was interested to note that women officers would by then be wearing mess dress very like the men's, although tailored differently to allow for certain gender differences. The model they were using was quite a cracker, too.

"HEX got me the uniform plans and patterns" Lady Sybil said, at his shoulder. "He picked this jolly clever iconographic magazine, too, so the tailors could look at finished examples. I'm sorry, but HEX said he couldn't bring your own uniforms over because it would expend too much energy, and anyway people would notice. This seemed like the next best thing."

She nodded, and the underbutler pulled the cover off the rail.

Holtack took an amazed step forward. ALL the uniforms were there. The ones he had been issued on his commission, the ones for everyday use, the rarely worn Number One uniform, the even more rarely worn full ceremonial dress uniform (the one that would have cost him thousands if he'd been able to afford to buy it). There was mess dress, and what on earth was _that_ one in the quite fetching dove grey… a memory prodded at him. One of the most rarely seen ones of the lot, the Number One uniform worn by military attachés at British embassies overseas, and then only for special occasions, like the host Generalissimo's birthday. As the risk of his being thought diplomatic enough to be sent on an Embassy posting had been held to be vanishingly small, Holtack's training had glossed over that one.

But he remembered the Ambassador's words of the previous evening.

"_You are the most senior Army officer from your country in this Discworld. To my way of thinking, thet also makes you your country's unofficial representative in this city. You should perheps learn to think of yourself in the context of being the British Embessador in this city. For you especially, these are extraordinary times!"_

Then again, if his information was right, he was also representing Sergeant Williams at what sounded uncomfortably like a court-martial. Which called for routine Number Two uniform. He came back to earth, or rather Disc, again, as Lady Sybil shyly opened a hat-box. She brought out…

_That's the standard infantry beret. With cap-badge. How did they manage that? White Fusilier plume, too. They must have some extraordinarily clever makers of things in this city! Shame it's not shaped, although they weren't to know that. _

"Those clever people at Boult and Lockes also did you your cap. And they modified a Venturi cavalry busby into your ceremonial headwear." she said.

Holtack took the familiar peaked cap, in a daze. It was perfect. Black brim, rising peak, Fusilier badge in the capband in front-centre.

"Thank you. This must have cost you thousands." he said, wondering how to repay her generosity.

Lady Sybil bloomed and smiled.

"Oh, small change, small change. I couldn't let people like Charles and Ronnie carry on looking down their noses at you for lack of breeding and not having the right uniforms to make a display in. Now here's the…. Sam Browne? – belt that goes with the uniform. Oh, and to be taken seriously as an Army officer in this city you'll need one of _those._ Sorry this isn't your country's official issue, as not even _this_ city can forge a sword overnight. It's as near as we could get, off the shelf, and I've got a good swordsmith on the job of creating an exact copy for you. You _do_ know how to use a sword, don't you?"

"How to _wear_ one, certainly." Holtack said, ruefully "Which is a question I was meaning to ask you both. How might I go about getting sword-fighting lessons in this city?"

"Sometimes, knowing how to wear one is all it needs." Sam Vimes said, with confidence. "I see my Watch recruits get at least basic lessons, although what we teach is mainly that if a policeman ever has to draw his sword, he's failed. Get to that point and there's no more room for talking or peaceable resolution, and you have to _use_ the damn thing. To us, a sword is something that hangs on your belt as a threat, something you might draw if you _had_ to. But as we're all sensible adults here, there's no need for me to draw it, is there? I see you've learnt that lesson?"

Holtack nodded.

"Northern Ireland again. Just because we carry guns doesn't mean we have to shoot them."

Vimes nodded.

"That's why I want you in the Watch. But if you want formal swordfighting lessons, as opposed to down-and-dirty streetfighting, talk to Jocasta. She knows people in and around the Guild who might be prepared to teach you the formal moves."

Sybil clapped her hands.

"Now we've sorted that out, what uniform are we going to wear to see Havelock? Goodness, this is interesting!"

* * *

At the Guild of Assassins, the Wilderness Survival teachers were in early-morning conference, supplemented by Lord Downey. The veteran head of department, the Compte de Yoyo, came from a family of explorers and adventurers, and still thought the height of happiness was fighting the elements in a bleak, barren and inhospitable place in inclement or extreme weather. For thirty years now, he had derived teaching satisfaction from passing his skills on to student Assassins, and he had welcomed younger teachers with different skill-sets who now assisted in training students to overcome any adversity. He welcomed new ideas, and today, he was assessing one, in the company of Downey, the Guild bursar Mr Wimvoe, Alice Band, Johanna Smith-Rhodes and Jocasta Wiggs.

Johanna passed around the Mars Bars she had spirited out of Roundworld early the previous morning. She did not let on, for the moment, that she had talked HEX into abstracting a whole case of them.

"So these were in the possession of the Roundworld visitor you detained and brought down from the dome of Small Gods." The Compte said, as he worked out how to open the unfamiliar wrapper. "You learnt in conversation with him that these chocolate confections are valued by the Roundworld soldiers he is a part of, as they represent concentrated food energy presented in a palatable and easily portable form."

"Just try one." Johanna invited them. "I believe this cen be usefully taken up by students on the wilderness survivel courses. Young people are crazy for all sorts of chocolate end sweet things. They will need no urging to eat them – in fect, I enticipete a problem in preventing them from eating too many – end it will enswer our ongoing problem, concerning cerrying retions, in eddition to ell the other things thet must be cerried on our becks."

She looked around her. Good; Alice was in a chocolate rapture. Jocasta looked as if she were having a sugar orgasm, her eyes closed in pleasure as she ate. Even Downey appeared to be appreciating the savour, and Mr Wimvoe looked as if he had no immediate need for the dried frog pills.

There was a happy chocolate silence. Then Mr Wimvoe said

"Mr Bourneville-Cadbury believes he can copy these using locally sourced ingredients and can sell them to us at five dollars per hundred if we agree a minimum contract for twenty thousand. They store well in a cool dry place. I believe the current budget can stand that, my Lord."

Downey put down the half-finished bar, with reluctance.

"I can certainly see the advantages. Students on the outward bound courses generally lose four or five pounds of body weight in a week. There is a need to balance food intake against energy expended, certainly. I will ask Matron Igorina to make a scientific calculation of the optimum. I believe she returns to us today after her necessary leave to deal with clan matters?"

"After that rather messy business at the Lady Sybil." said the Compte, finishing his bar. "I say, these are rather more-ish, aren't they?"

Johanna found another bar from somewhere and handed it over, helpfully.

"I can certainly see why our visitors carry these." he said. "Men in a job requiring self-reliance and a lot of physical exertion. There is so much we can learn from these men!"

Alice Band agreed.

"Jocasta's taking a class out this afternoon." she said. "Depending on how many of these things Johanna's got, we could trial the things and get her to report back?"

"I have enough to ellow thirty students to each cerry five of these _marsbars_." Johanna said. "One for each day of the expedition, with regular inspections to ensure only one a day is consumed, end a demerit point for eny student found to hev over-consumed."

"Good!" said the Compte. "I believe we're onto something worthwhile here. Jocasta, could you supervise issue and monitor progress?"

"And I will authorise a contract with the Guild of Confectioners." Downey said. "Although we _must_ ensure quality control. Perhaps insert a clause saying we will take the secret to Higgs and Meakin, if the Guild attempts to insinuate any of its less appealing ingredients into the mix?Good, then we're agreed. Now is there any news of our interesting visitor, the one Commander Vimes is keeping to himself at Ramkin Manor? I want that man in this Guild. He's a natural!"

Jocasta nodded; she was going to have to get a message to Philip to tell him she'd be out of town for a few days. She wondered who the Guild would send to maintain contact with him while she was gone.

* * *

Meanwhile, Philip Holtack had elected to wear normal walking-out uniform to his latest interview with the Patrician; he had considered the grey Diplomatic Service uniform, but thought that might be too presumptuous. Besides, Seven Platoon would have considered it a huge joke. At Lady Sybil's insistence, he had attached the sword to his belt, reflecting that this combination of uniform and equipment would count as being improperly dressed – swords were normally only worn with full ceremonials. Lady Sybil herself gave him a full dusting down – Holtack submitted meekly, knowing he was now deeply beholden to the kindness of his patron. He wondered how he could ever pay her back the favour.

Then he refreshed himself on walking confidently with a scabbarded sword flopping at his thigh, trying to be aware of where it was at all times and not to let it swing between his legs and trip him. Otherwise he'd go down in local folklore as The Man Who Tripped Over His Own Sword In Front Of The Patrician, which would never do. Hell's bells, he'd managed not to in front of Prince Charles, although it had been a close call.

* * *

"I believe our man at Ramkin Manor has discovered that the lieutenant has been asking where he can get lessons in elementary swordmanship, my Lord" .

Doctor Perdore was the Assassins' Guild lecturer in spycraft and espionage. He and Monsieur de Balouard ran efficient classes and also compiled a digest of useful information reaching the Guild through its own network of friends, contacts and informers.

Having dismissed the conference on the potential utility of _marsbars,_ Lord Downey was pleased to receive a report from his spymaster.

"Jolly good!" said Downey, and a reflective smile crossed his face. "We'll have to ensure he encounters the right teacher. One who will school an adult learner in good habits and disciplines of swordmanship. Only the best!"

"Shall I ask Madame Deux-Epées to come up and see you, my lord?" asked Doctor Perdore, smoothly.

Downey smiled.

"What a good idea, my dear Doctor! I'm sure she will welcome the offer of a social coffee. It's too early in the day for brandy, anyway. Just allow me to open the windows, as I'm sure she will want to has to be hospitable!"

"Indeed, sir" said Doctor Perdore, drily.

* * *

**(1)**Better: he got the Welsh-speakers to perform _A'r Hyd A'r Nos _for the General's wife. When Holtack met her at a Mess function, she enthused about the _nicer_ Welsh soldiers who sang hymns on the march, unlike some _frightfu_l sorts we had who were singing some_ terrible_ song about burning down holiday homes. Holtack nodded sympathetically and agreed that was a bit inflammatory, yes. At this point, Alice Band, who was chaperoning the general's wife, glared at him and intervened.


	42. Genies and bottles

_**Slipping Between Worlds – 42**_

An Assassins' Guild student had been singled out and detailed to deliver a personal note to Ramkin Manor. Sensing that he had been singled out because of a poor essay he had submitted the previous week, James Maugham crossed the city, wondering exactly how he was going to work _this_ one out without an ignominious dumping into the Ramkin dunnikin. Bad news travels fast among Guild students, and Maugham sensed he had been given a punishment assignment. He decided his only chance laid in full disclosure, and he stopped short at the gateway, taking care to stay on the Scoone Avenue side of the gates until otherwise advised. Vimes couldn't get him for that.

Being a gentleman in training, it had occurred to him to see if any consolation could be gained from reading the note, which was directed from Miss Wiggs to a Lieutenant P. Holtack. While the contents could be useful currency on the gossip grapevine, he reflected that it would not be long before any leak was traced back to him, and Miss Wiggs, for all her likeability and approachfulness, was still a fully qualified Assassin and a member, albeit a lowly one, of the teaching faculty. And, like witches, the lady teachers considered an affront to one was an affront to all. He really didn't want Miss Sanderson-Reeves calling him to her office to point that out to him. And besides, that deceptive-looking wax seal would have safeguards built into it. Try to finesse it with a hot knife to melt just enough wax from underneath, and he might find the heat would release fumes of a certain chemical which would interfere with his normal digestive processes in a sudden and catastrophic way. _No, a gentleman does not open the personal mail of a lady which is not addressed to him, _he decided.

One of the gate gargoyles jerkily craned its neck around to look down at him.

"I have a personal letter to deliver?" Maugham ventured. "In the circumstances, as I have no intentions towards intruding on Commander Vimes' privacy, it might be courteous for me to remain here and wait to be escorted?"

The gargoyle raised its voice in mournful call. It was answered by another gargoyle somewhere inside the grounds.

_Vimes now employs gargoyles, _Maugham reflected_. If that's not on the file, I can add it when I get back to the Guild. _

He heard the steady tramp of footsteps in the gravelled drive. It was the wide imposing figure of Willikins, the butler. The file on Ramkin Manor and Vimes was a thick one. But student Assassins were encouraged to read it, as a warning against over-confidence and as an ongoing puzzle for their minds.

_Former youth gang leader and streetfighter. Ex Army sergeant. Special constable. Known to have faced down and killed Dark Dwarves in combat – underground, on their own turf. A man not to be under-estimated. _

"Yes?" said Willikins, radiating professional disapproval.

"A note for your house-guest. From the Guild." Maugham said, uncertainly, handing it through the gates.

"I shall see that he receives it." Willikins said, with minimal servility. "Here's fifty pence for the messenger-boy."

Maugham took the money with mixed feelings – you didn't tip Assassins. It felt like a studied insult typical of Vimes. Then again, it represented a _frofficino_ coffee at Necros. Infinitely better than a dip in the dunnikin and a dry-cleaning bill. He could, he thought, stand a _minor_ studied insult. Things could have gone so much worse…

* * *

Sergeant Williams occupied his morning by eating a breakfast brought to him by a duty soldier, and reading a copy of the Ankh-Morpork Times sent with compliments by RSM Dickens. He read the account of the previous day's confusion and near-riot with amusement, and discovered a picture of a very recognisable Fusilier Hughes being hung out to dry by a massive ape. From his long-ago posting in Borneo as a boy soldier undergoing jungle training, he recognised it as an orang-utan, and reasoned that if Hughes had intruded on the personal space of one of _those_, he was damn lucky only to be dangling by the scruff of the neck. Apparently it was a librarian. Williams whistled. Now Miss Jones at the Capel Curig public library had looked a bit dog-rough, admittedly, and you would not have wanted to return a damaged book to her, but in terms of ugly library assistants, this one made her look like Miss Wales.

He read on. Two other _visitors_ were in custody, a lieutenant and another private soldier, and the City had impounded all weapons they were carrying with the intention of destroying them. A _Stop Press_ at the bottom of the page added that overnight, two more had been detained by the Watch following a stand-off in Hide Park, in which the alien weapons had been fired, with one person injured. It was also rumoured, although not confirmed, that a sixth was in military custody.

An inside page article by editor William de Worde confirmed that the visitors were all completely human and appeared normally well-adjusted, with no desire he could discern concerning taking over the City by force. Indeed, he had put this question to their senior officer, Lieutenant P-H-, who had answered, with refreshing candour, "To be honest, I would not know where to begin!". De Worde added that while reporting restrictions applied, he was personally satisfied the visitors had landed here through some sort of freak accident, possibly involving magical technomancy, and were victims of circumstance who were keen to be returned to their own world as soon as possible. The Times was keen to produce in-depth articles about the alien world they came from, and would be publishing as soon as the content could be agreed with the Palace. The population at large was not at risk from the visitors so far detailed and had no cause for alarm. However…

The paper also printed an iconograph of a man identifying himself as Gerard Francis McElroy. He was described as armed and extremely dangerous, a criminal who had fallen through space with the rest of the Visitors. The Watch are keen to detain him and a reward would be attached to information leading to his arrest. The public are warned not to approach him, but to pass news of his whereabouts on to the Watch.

Williams had just got onto an account of the bloody incident at the Lady Sybil Free Hospital - _accounts are confused but it is believed an incredibly dangerous and otherwise unknown animal got loose and was responsible for nearly killing an Igor until it was recaptured and delivered to the Zoo, where it is currently in maximum security confinement. Speculation is intense as to whether it had anything to do with our Visitors, although confused stories point to a massive explosion on the site of a previous interdimensional breach, in the Kicklebury Street area of the City. It is believed a crack squad composed of Assassins, Watchmen and Wizards were called to an emergency…._

There was a knock on the door.

"Ready, mun?"

RSM Dickens and a courtesy escort.

Williams, back in his old comfortable uniform again, swung his legs off the bed.

"Ready!" he said.

Dickens had allowed him to carry his rifle, accepting that with no bullet in the spout and the magazine removed – they were in Dickens' custody – all he carried was an expensive club. Besides, the soldiers with him were crossbow-armed. Williams knew enough to be aware of how potent those weapons were at close distance.

"Time for you to see His Lordship." Dickens said, almost apologetically. "Sorry, mun. I was not expecting an intelligent officer."

"No apology necessary, sir. Reminding you your job carries a pension was a dirty trick."

Dickens winced.

"As I said, an intelligent officer. We got a coach here so as you can travel un-noticed. We do not want another panic on the streets, do we?"

Williams boarded the coach. He could only hope, and by the look of it, the others appeared to have been treated lightly. Although he would _beast_ Powell and 47 Williams if any of those rounds had been fired negligently. It was something to look forward to.

* * *

Frankie McElroy whistled a happy tune as he set to in the undercroft on the Cathedral site, one of a team shaping up wooden formers for the stonemasons to build an arch around. Down here the team was all Hergenian; they accepted him as one of their own, and it was good to be doing a proper job of work again after so long on the dole. Though he really _had _had to get on his bike to find it. **(1)**

He had not seen the Times that morning; although he had no fear of exposure, as the Irish, wherever you found them, were inclined to give a fellow a fair shake and treat him on his merits. Besides, the building trade was renowned for giving ex-cons a fresh start after time in prison; he reckoned from the conversation around him that half these fellas had done time in the local prison, this Tanty place. They'd look after a man on the run, or at least, say nothing to the peelers.

He set to. He could deal with the Brits later. Right now, it was three dollars a day for a skilled tradesman plus bonuses and overtime. Just a bit of bellyache to contend with, must have been a bad beer last night.

Captain Carrot had been called to a house in the Dimwell area of the city. At first it had been a straightforward report of an unlicenced burglary. Constable Haddock had been sent to investigate and take a report. Apparently while the family had been out at Hide Park, the house had been robbed: food, some ready cash, and, strangely, a fisherman's rod-bag, but not the more valuable rods and reels, had been taken, small things of minimal value. That didn't add up. Why not steal the fishing rods as well as the bag? And then Haddock had seen the small thing, a small thing all Watchmen had been instructed to look out for.

The gleaming brass tube, blackened at its open end, that had rolled almost out of sight under the table.

Haddock had sent for back-up immediately.

"It's from a _gonne_." Carrot had confirmed, sniffing the tube. "But we've had no reports of one being fired here? And all our _visitors_ are in custody now. Only two of them were seen in this general area, but quite a few streets away. They fired a _gonne_, yes, but not of this type. We've accounted for the firing tubes, and they're of a different pattern."

Carrot looked at the discarded fishing rods.

"A bag to carry those would have to be long and quite thin. You could conceal a _gonne_ in it…"

And the Watch had its first lead to Gerard Francis McElroy.

* * *

And at the Lemonade Factory, Fusiliers Hughes and Ruijterman were setting up a practical demonstration for the Watch recruits. After the previous day's events and the wounding of one Watchman, they'd agreed they could make a practical difference by wising up the Watch to the deadly potential of a new weapon. Vimes had agreed, and while Watchmen were setting up a blast-screen and sandbags to the satisfaction of Ruijterman, Hughes was industriously filling bottles of various sizes and inserting and securing rags. The City Watch was about to get a practical lesson, from experts, in recognising and countering petrol bombs.

At the Palace, Lord Vetinari was in conference with his secretary Rufus Drumknott.

"It appears we have a request from the Howondalandian Ambassador to see the visitor Hans Ruijterman." Vetinari said, neutrally. "He is making a very reasonable case that while Ruijterman is not, technically, a citizen of Rimwards Howondaland, he is from the nation state of _sed-efrrrikka _on our parallel world, and therefore should enjoy the moral right to diplomatic representation in a country not his own. This diplomatic representation should come from a nation state on our world that has much in common with his _sed-efrrrikka _.Ergo, Ambassador van der Graaf humbly requests right of access."

"I believe Lieutenant Holtack pronounces it "South Africa", sir." Drumknott observed.

Vetinari considered this.

"Not as much fun to pronounce, though. Do allow me _some_ cerebral pleasures. But I thought we had very carefully not released the fact one of our visitors could pass for Howondalandian. I clearly recollect requesting the newspapers to with-hold this detail. There has been a security leak somewhere."

Vetinari paused, and thoughtfully enunciated

"_Sed-efrrrikka. Sed-efrrrikka. _Such an interesting and satisfactory sound, Drumknott. The harsh clipped consonants evoke a stern and uncompromising people, such as we know the Boors to be. The words are positively onomatopoeic! And the magnificent rolled 'r''s."

"If we are speaking of Miss Smith-Rhodes, she has had neither opportunity nor time to speak to her uncle." Drumknott reflected. "Perhaps Miss van Kruger?"

"Who went straight back to the Guild after yesterday's affairs." Vetinari reflected. "No, Drumknott, somebody told the ambassador. A regrettable state of affairs, as I do not see how I can refuse."

"It is a fair request, sir." Drumknott said.

"Indeed. But take the bigger picture. It means all our visitors, who have working knowledge of _gonnes_, remain in Ankh-Morpork where I can see them and I can exert informal control over what parts of their knowledge they make available to our people. All except _one_. Who is a patriotic _sed-efrrrikkan _who, not unreasonably, may elect to travel there or even permanently reside there, in a country which is one-half of a delicate balance of power in the continent. On the Roundworld, the white _sed-efrrrikkans _conclusively defeated their Zulu neighbour and incorporated their lands into a larger Union. Here, neither country has the military strength to conclusively defeat the other, and both know it. So peace, unsteady though it is, prevails. And we may be sending to Rimwards Howondaland a man embittered by the loss of his country to the black people, a patriotic white man, who has the secret of the _gonne._ Re-arm the Boor _volksommandos_ with even crude _gonnes_, Drumknott, and what do you think will happen next?"

Rufus Drumknott paused. Then a look of horror crossed his face.

"Exactly, Drumknott. The balance of power fails. The Boors grasp the chance to invade Kwa'Zululand, armed as they are with a superior weapon. As their client state fails, the Klatchians step in to support an ally. Then we are forced to support kith and kin in Howondaland against the Klatchians. Not just a war in the continent of Klatch, but a world war. One where the outcome is unclear, except for the fact _gonnes_ will surely proliferate. Everything I have worked for will be threatened, even gone beyond chance of retrieval. There is more at stake here than just one man's right to see a consul, Drumknott. "

Vetinari went quiet for a moment.

"Schedule a meeting with the Ambassador, please. No great rush. And now the rest of the business for today?"

Sundry criminal charges arising from yesterday, sir. The matter of the remainder of our visitors. The tribunal to assess charges against Fusiliers Williams and Powell, which is a purely civil matter. Then the military tribunal to answer charges against Sergeant Williams. And the matter of importance, concerning Gerard Francis McElroy. The rogue _gonneman_."

"Oh yes." said Vetinari. "The rogue _gonneman_. I fear this is going to be a long day, Drumknott."

* * *

Holtack travelled to the Palace in a Ramkin coach, gloomily thinking "Here we go again.". He broke the seal and read the note from Jocasta. She explained that she'd be out of town for a few days, but if it was any consolation, she'd be thinking of him. She didn't know who the Guild would send to look after him, but there would be somebody, and she was sure whoever it was would answer all his questions honestly and openly. Love, Jocasta.

He folded the note and slipped it into a pocket. He wondered, in an abstract sort of way, if he'd be brought back down to Earth…_Disc_…. with a bump, if Alice Band took over as his mentor in all things pertaining to the Guild of Assassins. Or perhaps it could be the peppery South African… _Howondalandian_ – one. But wasn't she that likeable boffin's girlfriend? _And how does vegemite end up on this planet_, he wondered, out of nowhere. ._Australian backpackers? The buggers get everywhere, after all. _

"Jocasta?" Sam Vimes asked, a hint of sympathy in his voice. Holtack nodded. Vimes gave him a long look.

"I won't ask." He said. "But she's a pleasant girl, for a bloody Assassin, and Sybil's fond of her. Hell's bells, _I'm_ fond of her!"

After a moment or two, Holtack, divining the unspoken "treat her unkindly and I will personally break your legs" harmonic, changed the subject.

"Are there many Australians in this city?" he asked. Vimes looked puzzled.

_Ah. Different name again. But I don't know it_.

"Vegemite?" Holtack hazarded. "Kangaroos? Lager? She'll be right, mate? Prime minister who goes for a swim and is never seen again? Cricket?"

"Oh, you mean _Fourecksians!_" Vimes said. "Noisy buggers, but apart from the odd drunk, no trouble to the Watch, usually. What's "cricket"?"

"It's a sort of game." Holtack said. "If you ever get a spare month, I'll try to explain the rules to you."

_So not everything exists in both worlds, then. Although for anything as baffling and culturally impenetrable as cricket to have evolved anywhere, even once, is highly improbable._

"_Try_ not to teach anyone to play it." Vimes said. "We've got three types of football here and they're all incitements to breach of the peace. Two homegrown, and that one from Llamedos that's catching on, fifteen men a side and a ball that's squeezed out of shape… began as a religious rite, of all the damn fool things."

"Ah. _Rwgbi_. It's a religion to us too."

The long cool appraising glare resumed.

"You're Llamedosian. Or as good as. I was forgetting. We're here."

The coach rumbled to a halt in the Palace yard. Vimes hopped nimbly down, while Holtack, painfully aware of the sword at his side, gingerly stepped down on the other side, trying not to trip. Once at cobblestone level, he straightened his new dress cap, and acknowledged a courteous salute from the sergeant in charge of the guard detail.

He recalled a memory.

"Sir Samuel, will I need to hand my sword in at the gatehouse or anything? Are there any rules about me going armed in front of the Patrician?"

Sam Vimes grinned.

"Not as far as I know. I do it every other day. And I'm escorting you! Just don't do anything even vaguely threatening with it while you're in there, though. Vetinari has got a lot of defences and some of them stay alert!"

In the event, Vimes was drawn off to one side by a plainclothes Watch officer for an urgent briefing. Listening, Holtack divined that they'd discovered where the IRA man, McElroy, had come to Disc, and were actively following. He suddenly felt icy-cold and vulnerable. He was here, in the open, in recognisable British uniform. A legitimate target.

He shook the feeling off, although he was moved to scan the roofscape opposite, out of habit. He discerned at least one watcher up there, possibly a palace guard. And where there were obviously visible guards, there'd be invisible ones. Assassins, probably. _If McElroy tried to sneak past them, he's as dead as if the SAS had got him. _

The thought was satisfying for a second or two, and then another chill thought gripped him.

_What if getting home again is dependent on all of us who crossed over remaining alive to be sent back together? If any one of us is killed here, including McElroy, does that mean the rest of us are stranded here with no hope of seeing home again? _

_And not just him. There's the old bag lady with the trolley. Where did she disappear to? And she is one tricky old bitch to lift. The Watch here are good but they frankly admit she eludes them, too._

His internal reverie was interrupted by the advent of that rather fey-looking personal assistant of Vetinari's. _I never heard him come up behind us. Did the Assassins train him too? _

"Sir Samuel? Lieutenant Holtack? The Patrician will see you now. Please follow me."

* * *

**(1) **Tory cabinet minister Norman Tebbit said, in 1983, the unemployed should do as his grandfather had done: cease this anti-social rioting and get on their bikes and go out to find work. This has gone down in political history as an example of caring concerned Conservatism in action.


	43. In court again

_**Slipping Between Worlds – 43**_

An invitee this time and not the man in the dock, Holtack followed Commander Vimes and the silently gliding Drumknott into the main audience room of the Palace. He noted the shattered doorframe, which had silently surrendered to two trolls the previous morning, was still in a woeful and splintered condition, although the doors had been removed and were leaning neatly against the wall on either side.

Again, Holtack speculated on how Troll soldiers might revolutionise the civil unrest in Northern Ireland. They'd certainly be good at three a.m. lifts and getting through locked doors. He reasoned they'd be pretty much bulletproof; and only the heaviest explosions would stop them. _Could I take a few back with me? _he wondered_. It's a troll's life in the British Army. Do all the heavy jobs that don't call for too much brains. Judging by the size of the crossbow that police troll was toting as a sidearm, we could issue them 120mm anti-tank guns as personal weapons. The old Wombat would be like a Browning pistol in the hands of a Detritus. And granted, they'd have the intelligence of a paratrooper, but brains have never been a selection criterion there…__**(1)**_

The door guard recognised "officers" and stamped to attention; Holtack waited for Vimes, as the senior rank, to return the salute, then realised, after a few seconds embarrassed pause, everyone was looking at _him_.

_It's the uniform_, he thought, _it's designed to make you look like an officer. _He returned the salutes, and everything was orderly again.

Inside the audience room, he recognised many of the faces as people who had been there yesterday. While late arrivals were still trickling in, he recognised Lord Downey and Alice Band among the Assassins' Guild contingent. Both acknowledged him with nods and smiles. While Jocasta wasn't there, her place appeared to have been taken by a new Assassin to him: she was a disconcertingly attractive woman in her possible early thirties, with long lustrous black hair piled up in a fashionable Psyche knot and tied back under a net. Her eyes were the steady observant ones of a killer, but her lips were red and full and sensual. A sword hung from her waist with easy grace, and there was a matching long dagger on the other side. She was looking at him with a steady gaze that made him feel uncomfortable. He tried to place her.

_If this was Earth, I'd say… south of France? Italy perhaps? Something Mediterranean, anyway. Maybe even Spanish. But the French movie industry would love a face like that. There's a definite bit of Bardot in there, maybe crossed with a young Jeanne Moreau. Something of the regal hauteur of Catherine Deneuve, too, that ice-queen look Deneuve is so good at. Isabelle Huppert? No, Huppert looks too girl-next-door innocent. If this one were the girl next door you'd either want to move in, or else get out of town completely…_

The sultry beauty suddenly smiled at him and her face broke into a grin that was Annie Girardot at her most impish. Holtack had the uneasy feeling she knew _exactly_ what he was thinking.**(2)**

Commander Vimes was opening his mouth to say something, when there was an explosion of gold braid, red uniform jacket and stale port-and-cigar breath from his right, un-noticed, as the new Assassin had grabbed all his attention.

"Now you see here, boy!"

Holtack half-turned to look into the red and raging face of Lord Selachii. He'd been too intent on figuring out Bardot to notice, and gave himself a black mark for inattention.

"You spent yesterday here convincing Vetinari you'd arrived here by accident and you were no threat to anybody. Today I discover you had the audacity and the sheer bloody nerve to insinuate one of your men into MY damn' regiment as a spy! I'll tell you this for nothing, boy! That damn' spying sergeant of yours is going to be HUNG before the day's out, and I'll damn well see to it that YOU are on the noose next to him!"

Holtack backed off from the spitting and shouting; he half-glimpsed Sergeant Williams, standing off to one side under military escort.

"Now take it easy, sir." he began. "We all arrived here pretty much separately, we are all cut off from our own chain of command, and we all had to make our own independent best decision as to how to manage where we were and where we could take shelter. I'm pleased I seem to have got everyone back and nobody's actually been killed!"

"_Yet!"_ Selachii hissed, maliciously. "If I had my way I'd hang the whole bloody lot of you!" He might have added more, but Vetinari chose this moment to enter, unannounced.

Selachii reluctantly resumed his seat, muttering threats and malice. The dark beauty smiled enigmatically at Holtack and made a very Gallic shrug, communicating the idea of _Such impolite people. Regrettable, non? _with exquisite body language.

Holtack thought _that settles it. She's French, then. How did Vimes put it last night? _**Quirmian.**_ Sounds like one of those soft oozy smelly cheeses. _

But he sat in his allocated place, aware from a brief scan of the room that his three missing Fusiliers were all there and accounted for. He wished he had had time to talk to them first: he only knew the sketchiest details of their adventures and half-suspected he was going to be caught out by something genuinely reprehensible and hard to defend. Especially in the case of Fusilier "Head-Butt" Powell, who he had previously defended in front of both Tim Endion-Williams and the Colonel for assorted infractions of civil law, Queen's Regulations and the Army Acts. _The advocacy I've had to do for that man would have won me a standing ovation at a defence lawyers' convention, _he thought.

Still, here we go.

"Thank you all for attending, ladies and gentlemen." Vetinari began, smoothly. "The first order of business this morning is to publicly hear those criminal cases brought about by the extraordinary events of the last three days. While I am not prejudging any of those cases, I do note that Mr Bellamy from the Tanty and a squad of prison officers are present to take custody of any person or persons found guilty, and a Tanty prison wagon stands ready in the yard to convey them. Capital. I see all possibilities are catered for."

Vetinari looked round him with something approaching benevolence.

"After that issue is disposed of, we move on to the question of our remaining three Visitors. I notice you are impeccably turned out today, Lieutenant Holtack?"

Holtack stood and saluted. He decided he dare not attempt to do it with the sword.

"Yes, sir. The kindness of my hostess, Lady Ramkin, sir. She paid for a reproduction of the appropriate uniform to be tailored for me. I was impressed she was able to get it done so quickly!"

"We have very clever tailors, lieutenant. No doubt HEX provided the patterns and details, and our all-night tailoring shops did the rest. It looks suitably impressive on you."

"Couldn't she find anything brighter than _that_, man?" demanded the braying voice of Lord Rust. "That drab dull greeny-brown isn't fit for an officer, to my way of thinking!"

_And good morning to you too, sir._

"If you insist, sir, I can ask permission to go back to Ramkin Manor and change into full ceremonials, as Lady Ramkin was kind enough to provide me with a choice of dress." Holtack said, measuring tact against candour. "But this uniform suffices for everyday wear and for functions such as defending men under my command who are on a charge. And I believe I understand the Patrician as having given approval of my mode of dress, and I'm sure nobody wishes these proceedings to be delayed."

_Stick that up your sabretache and gallop on it, _Holtack thought.

"Shove it, Ronnie. I suspect the boy thinks like me on the subject of un-necessary plumage." Vimes grated, defending him.

"Now can we wheel 'em in, find 'em guilty, and cart 'em off to the Tanty?"

"I commend your enthusiasm, Sir Samuel." Vetinari said. "If not your dedication to due legal process. But time presses, so if you will have the defendants brought in?"

Vimes nodded to Watchmen on the fringes. Under heavy guard, the first offenders, Andy Shank and his New Posse, were brought in. Shank was breathing heavily and bandage-wrapped from the waist up, but refusing help to walk or stand.

"Dear me." Vetinari said. "You appear to have been on the receiving end of a beating, Mr Shank. I understand this is a rare experience for you! Would you care to explain the circumstances? No? Any of your associates? As you wish. Let the record say you have chosen silence. Commander Vimes, please relate the circumstances of the arrest?"

Vimes stepped forward, and related the story of how two evenings previously, his officers had been called to an incident in Dimwell, where they had found the four members of the New Posse in some disarray at the roadside. Shank, the ringleader, had been seen to be in most pain and discomfort, and the four had been taken to the Lady Sybil and treated under armed guard for bruises, contusions, and in Shank's case, three broken ribs. Investigations at the area of the crime had elicited witness statements to the effect that the four had attempted to menace two strangely-dressed individuals who had just appeared in the area, nobody knew where they'd come from. An altercation had blown up where Shank had , true to form, taken being referred to as "Scarface" as a provocation to violence. Threats of robbery had then been made, at which the two strangely-dressed men with Llamedosian accents had in fact delivered the violence. Both were carrying sinister weapons, one of which was discharged with enough violence to send a projectile into the chest of the said Mr Shank, causing his broken ribs. The projectile was recovered and turned out to be a five-inch long cylinder made of some hard rubber-like material. As a _cartridge case_ was also found discarded at the roadside, by analogy with the previous emergency, sir, we knew we were dealing with a _gonne_ in the city.

The two strange Llamedosians then conclusively turned the tables on the rest of the Posse with some applied violence, then the only one remaining conscious was heard to be interrogated by one of the men while the other searched the unconscious for money and valuables. From what was overheard, it was established that the newcomers were confused as to where they were, even, as it turned out, what planet they were on.

It was only later, Vimes said, when more information was forthcoming, that we linked this incident to the alien visitors.

"Are they present for questioning?" Vetinari asked. Vimes nodded.

"Bring them forward."

Holtack leant forward with interest as Powell and Williams were escorted forwards by Watchmen. Now Andy Shank became enlivened, even voluble, as he pointed his finger and shouted

"There they are, sir! They're the two villains who laid into us without provocation and robbed us! They're the guilty ones!"

Vetinari and Vimes glared at him. Holtack stole a look. Yes. Powell had put on his most innocent "_Who, me, sir_?" face. He'd seen it many times before at Company Orders and Colonel's Report, usually just after words such as "_Sergeant Williams' charge, sir!" _or_ "You are charged with…"_ had been spoken..

"Pots and kettles, Andy!" growled Vimes, who had shaken the hand of Powell for his accomplishment in laying out Shank and his gang.

"We will see." Vetinari said, mildly. "Lieutenant Holtack, take the stand, please. Do you recognise either of these men?"

"Yes, sir. I can confirm they are Fusilier Powell and Fusilier Williams, J.J., known as "Forty-Seven" for identification purposes."

"Known by a number, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir. The name "Williams" is a very common one in Wales. We had, for instance, a hundred and six men of all ranks called "Williams", including my platoon sergeant. There were five in my full platoon, for instance. The custom is to employ an informal nickname for distinguishing purposes, in this case the last two digits of his Army serial number."

Vetinari nodded. "Can you speak for the good character of both men?"

Holtack paused. What could he say that was not going to be proven an outright lie or which would leave him looking daft?

"Well, sir. As his commanding officer, I consider Fusilier Williams is a good soldier, trained, dedicated and competent. He's honest and trustworthy and I can assure you his testimony will be acceptably accurate and truthful."

"Good enough. And Fusilier Powell?"

Holtack tried to prevent a wince, aware Vetinari was studying his face. He considered lies and then evasion, and dismissed both options. _I'll have to fall back on truth, then. Damn. _

"Sir. Fusilier Powell is what has been called a _Queen's hard bargain._ He's a drinker and a brawler and a street-fighter and you could make curtains for a very large window out of his charge-sheet. However, I've never known him tell an outright lie and he's never been found guilty of theft." _Which is not the same thing as saying he's never lied and has never been suspected of theft. There was that case of window-shopping__**(3)**__3__ in Derry, for instance…_"However, if a real shooting battle ever broke out, I'd feel happier with Powell watching my back. Sir."

Vetinari nodded. "Thank you, lieutenant. Now perhaps you two soldiers would like to tell your stories? Starting with _you_, Fusilier Powell."

Holtack stepped back and listened to Powell and Williams relating how they'd arrived on the Discworld, from the stand-off and the bomb in Ireland to the point where they had turned the tables on Andy Shank' gang. Here, Vetinari raised a hand for silence.

"And after that, you invested some of the money you took from the gentlemen who had attempted to rob you, in the form of food and drink from a nearby shop – is Mrs Dustbin present to give testimony? Thank you. And then you went to ground in Hide Park. If we leave the second part of your testimony for later, please? As it isn't immediately relevant. Thank you, gentlemen. You may return to your seats."

Powell and Williams were returned to their seats, casting grins of recognition at their officer, Powell making loud comment about _I see we're not the only ones who managed a change of clothes then, sir! _

"Given the high risk of witness interference which is a regrettable feature of past cases involving this defendant, I will not insist the people who deposited testimony with the Watch step forward and deliver it in court." Vetinari said, "I will affirm that Commander Vimes has seen the names and addresses, as have I, and as has Mr Slant, and we are in agreement that justice may be served by simply reading their statements, the originators of the statements having been identified as citizens in good standing and as reliable witnesses. The statements, please, Commander?"

"Sir!" said Vimes. He went on to read three witness statements from Dimwell citizens who had witnessed the altercation between the Posse and the Fusiliers.

_No jury. Just a single judge. Witness statements rendered anonymous in court because of the risk of the defendant, or his mates, nobbling the witness. Sounds just like a Diplock.__**(4) **_Holtack watched the trial unfold. _Still, it served me fairly yesterday. _

Glaring down the protests from Shank, Vetinari meaningfully waited for silence.

"It appears the case is clear-cut." he said. "I have permitted statements to be read in this court on behalf of people who would otherwise have been persuaded, shall we say, to retract their evidence. The people who matter are assured of the identity and probity of the witnesses. That is enough to suit the purpose of the law and due jurisprudence. No, Mr Shank, _you will be silent! _You have been before this court on several prior occasions, and arrested, but not even reached court, on other occasions. Every time the case against you has collapsed because vital witnesses have refused to testify, or witnesses have claimed mistaken identity and retracted their evidence, or have simply not turned up on the day of trial, or have simply been too frightened to face you in court.

"Well, today, we have heard evidence from two witnesses who have not been intimidated. Their commanding officer, a man who has proven his own integrity and worth to me, has testified to them as being reliable and generally honest men. To me, that is enough.

"Mr Shank, you are a villain and a thug and a parasite on others. You cultivate fear in others and you appear to live and breathe in an atmosphere of tyranny with yourself as petty tyrant. And – speaking as an even bigger and rather more powerful tyrant – that ends today. You will be taken from this place to commence a five year sentence of hard labour at the Tanty prison. Where, let me assure you, Mr Bellamy is an exceedingly capable head warder and Deputy Governor who has a range of sanctions at his disposal. You are, of course, aware his wife is a graduate Assassin and a teacher at the Guild School? And that one of his sons is a pupil there? I would therefore advise you that threats or reprisals against his family can only, in the long run, work against you. And of course, the informal power in the prison is Mr Joe "Lifer" Bushyhead, who I understand has a way all of his own with threats to his status. Your five years in the Tanty, therefore, I expect to be a model of good behaviour and impeccable conduct. For your own wellbeing, if nobody else's."

Vetinari paused. Then, as a combination of Watchmen and prison guards moved to restrain Shank, he moved on to the hapless Maxie (eighteen months) Fartmeister Carter (twelve months) and Jumbo (six months, suspended).

"I have given you a lenient sentence because you are a Thieves' Guild member." Vetinari said, genially. "Therefore in going equipped to steal, and conspiring to cause armed robbery, you were doing nothing more than Guild charter and accepted practice dictates. The sentence, such as it is, is for malicious loitering in the company of a villain like Mr Shank. I am allowing you to go free, however, because I'm sure Mr Boggis would like a word with you for cumulative infractions of Guild rules."

Vetinari smiled genially as the implications began to show on Jumbo's face.

"You aided and abetted unlicenced theft, in that you allowed three non-Guild members to participate in theft with you, and that you would have shared the proceeds of that theft with them. You would obviously also have defrauded your Guild out of that percentage of the booty which should have been fenced with them. You would have concealed knowledge of acts of un-licenced theft from the Guild. Which is why, as a courtesy, I am making you immediately available for Guild justice. I release the accused into your custody, Mr Boggis!"

There was a minor scuffle as the terrified and ashen Jumbo registered who was bearing down on him: Mr Boggis, the Thieves' Guild president, flanked by his bodyguards and enforcers Vinny "_No Ears_" Ludd and Harry "_Can't remember his own nickname_" Jones. The Watchmen and prison warders politely stood back to allow the thieves access to their defaulter, who was white and gibbering. Vimes and Boggis swiftly concluded a handover between their respective jurisdictions, and Boggis signed a receipt, offering Vimes his hand afterwards. Jumbo was dragged off, quietly whimpering, between Ludd and Jones, with Boggis walking alongside with a look of quiet satisfaction on his face.

"Take the prisoners down, Mr Bellamy." the Patrician ordered.

And then Vimes was signing the other three criminals over to Peter Bellamy and the care of the Tanty prison warders. As Shank was marched away, handcuffed to two warders, he lunged at "Head-Butt" Powell, who stepped forward and locked eyeballs with him.

"I'll have you, you Llamedosian sheep-shagger! I swear I'm coming for you! I won't forget this! You just wait till I get out!"

Powell stepped forward until his face was inches away from Andy's. The hushed crowd in the audience chamber watched intently. This was real street-theatre. Or perhaps drawing-room comedy.

"Any time, boy!" Powell growled. "I'm not going to punch you now as you is handcuffed and anyway you has a few busted ribs. Wouldn't be a fair fight, see. But you comes and finds me when you is healed and out of prison and I'll be there. And I tell you, I has seen some scary things in my life. You does not even make the first hundred, you pathetic little shit!"

Holtack watched the exchange, wondering if it were going to be proper for him to interfere. Powell had just been challenged. He knew enough about the machismo of southwelian coalminers and steelworkers to know he should allow it to play to a conclusion before he stepped in – Powell would never forgive him otherwise. But if there were to be a breach of military discipline right in front of Vetinari…

_It's funny how so much of a young officer's role around his men involves looking the other way and failing to notice, _he thought, quoting George McDonald Fraser. And then the situation was resolved.

"Fusilier Powell! That is enough! You will step back and cease impeding the policemen and prison officers as they go about their duties!"

Of course. Sergeant Williams was also in the room. Even as a prisoner himself, his voice carried with a weight and authority Powell could not ignore. The Queen's Hard Bargain stepped back, and the room collectively exhaled.

Shank grinned an evil grin. Powell grinned mirthlessly at him.

"You has annoyed me, boy." he said. "Until the next time!"

A prison warder jerked on the handcuffs.

"Get moving, Shank." he said, hustling the prisoner to the exit door.

The Patrician waited for the noise to die away, and then said, genially:

"I think we can now move onto the next item of public justice. The case of… _petrol bombes_… being used on the city streets. Commander Vimes?"

Vimes stepped up again and described the latest nasty little weapon that had made its way to Ankh-Morpork. He noted that some of the people in this room would have seen HEX running images from Roundworld of these weapons being used against British soldiers. Well, it would appear that a rather nasty gentleman crossed over alongside the known Visitors who had been detained. He had taken it upon himself to teach some of our nastier yobs how to make and use firebombs, and these had been deployed to deadly effect, leaving a Watchman in the Lady Sybil undergoing extensive and painful skin grafts from the Igors to replace areas of skin totally destroyed by burning oil.

"We are actively looking for this man Gerard Francis McElroy, as we believe he is also carrying a _gonne_ and enough bullets to make him very dangerous to us. We suspect he may have gone to ground in the Hergenian community in this city, and unfortunately those buggers aren't favourably disposed to us and tend to clam up on sight of a copper." Vimes paused, took a deep breath, and said "Any assistance from anyone would be appreciated. But I stress he is carrying a _gonne_ and will be tempted to use it. So any Assassins or Thieves joining the hunt need to be careful."

He turned to Vetinari and said

"Sir, I'd be grateful if the next two defendants have the whole bloody Library dropped on them from a great height. I could also use a ruling to say _petrol bombes_ are completely forbidden and on the "banned" list of weapons."

"Noted" said Vetinari. "Bring them in and I will hear the evidence."

The two petrol bombers captured the previous day were marched in by Watchmen whose body language was not sympathetic. Holtack reflected on how young and small and scared they looked; he'd seen it a dozen times when he had been called to local courts to give evidence against minor criminals the Army had detained. _But they picked up a new skill enthusiastically and knew what they were doing when they set fire to a Watchman. And I bet they weren't offered a takeaway curry in the cells. Even if they were Prots, the RUC would not have been gentle with them. _

Vetinari heard the evidence, including Holtack's.

"So you were wearing a borrowed Assassin cloak to conceal your uniform while in the street. And the defendant leapt to conclusions, and assumed you were in fact an Assassin."

"Yes, sir. Miss Wiggs fed him the line that I was the Guild School's principal teacher in interrogation techniques. I went along with this."

An appreciative laugh ran around the room.

"I just happened to describe what you might call the general principles of how you might persuade somebody to divulge information. The scientific and methodological application of pain and discomfort. The defendant got the general idea and was very suddenly keen to tell everything to Commander Vimes."

"I see." said the Patrician, against audience laughter.

"Lieutenant, have you ever actually _used _such methods of interrogation on a human subject?"

Holtack looked him in the eye.

"No, sir. Part of my training involved having them used on _me_, though."

Vetinari gave him a long cool look.

"And clearly in this instance the threat of a – _presumed _– black-clad Assassin discussing interrogation techniques with a colleague was enough to provoke full and frank disclosure. I believe this is what is commonly referred to as _the first degree._ Proceed!"

Vetinari heard out the rest of the evidence. Then he moved to a verdict.

"Edward Maguire and Kevin Barry Corrigan" he said. "You are members of the youth gang commonly known as the Wild Geas, composed of locally born sons of Hergenian immigrants to this city. What fires you, if I understand correctly, are heroic legends of the Hergenian struggle for independence from Ankh-Morpork, combined with a regret that you live in times when such battles are largely old history and thus there is no chance of imitating heroes of old. This streak of romanticism is compounded by the fact you live in the here-and-now, at a time when, regrettably, there is still a lot of petty and greater prejudice against Hergenians in this city. I do not deny that happens, and that some of our less open-minded citizens practice this discrimination openly and I would daresay humiliatingly. But such prejudices are also applied against Howondalandians – well, mainly against black-skinned Howondalandians – and I do not see any sign of that community expressing undue disaffection in the form of lethal fire bombs thrown at Watchmen. This situation commands a certain sympathy, and it is to be hoped a better educated and informed populace will in time lose its prejudices.

"However, you were born in this City. You are Ankh-Morporkian by birth and therefore you owe a certain set of obligations to this city. These are not negotiable, and key among them is the expectation that you do not go armed with the intention of killing or maiming city employees in the course of their duty.

"Therefore I decree that the device you used in full awareness of its capacity to damage, the _petrol bombbe_, goes on the banned list of weapons prohibited within the city limits. Sanctions will be applied without fear or favour to those convicted of using them. Lord Downey, be so kind as to advise Miss Smith-Rhodes that any practical experimentation with fire bombs of various sorts is now conducted _well_ outside the City, if you please.

"Edward Maguire, Kevin Barry Corrigan. For the crime of assault and grievous bodily harm on an officer of the Watch, you will each do one year of hard labour in the youth prison at the Tanty. And clearly, Ankh-Morpork is a hateful place for a young Hergenian man to live in. Your songs, expressed feelings of disaffection, and nationalist sentiments, all speak volumes. Clearly, as you will still be young men when you are released from custody in a year's time, the City will have a responsibility for guiding your feet and resettling you. After all, your continuing to live in a city you despise so much, with the stigma of a criminal record, will be of no use to anyone. I therefore rule that at City expense, you will each receive a one-way ticket to Fourecks, on the first available emigrant boat after discharge from prison. You will not be permitted to return to Ankh-Morpork for a period of not less than fifteen years. Who knows, you may then have made a whole new life in Fourecks and become valued citizens. That is all. Take them down, Mr Bellamy!"

_Transportation to Australia. Vetinari doesn't mess around when he's angry…_

The echoes of two appalled would-be Hergenian terrorists being dragged off in handcuffs died down. There had been some shouting and noise in the public gallery – Holtack suspected relatives of the accused had been allowed access to the trial, and Irish families tended to be large – but intervention by Guardsmen had stopped that.

"And now." Vetinari said, "After the purely civil cases, we can now conclude the issue of the final three Visitors who need to be presented to this Assembly. If Fusiliers Powell and Williams step forward again? Professor Stibbons, please stand by with HEX, if you will. Thank you."

Powell and Williams, aware their platoon sergeant was in the room and watching, marched smartly forward, left-turned, and came to a saluting attention. Their unregarded platoon commander awarded a grudging nine for smartness. _But then, Powell is a veteran at answering charges. And he's worked out who the commanding officer is here. _

And so the next part of the morning began.

* * *

**(1)**Some explanation needed. The BAT series of anti-tank weapons were the last towed anti-tank guns issued to British forces. (Battallion Anti-Tank). The WOMBAT weapon, most properly a recoilless rifle of 120mm calibre, could fire the same weight of charge as a main battle tank, and represented a small yet very potent tank-killer. It was still a front-line weapon in the early 1980's, and stood about four foot tall and eight foot long on its carriage. It would, therefore, have been an ideal hand-gun for a Detritus to tote. Largely obsolete now, at least as a towed weapon, some versions soldier on as weapons systems mounted to landrovers and troop carriers.

**(2) **While I have been taken to task lately for putting footnotes in where there is no need for me to do so, I can't resist a catalogue of some of the most gorgeous women to have graced French or indeed any other cinema.

**(3) **"Window-shopping". In a British army in Northern Ireland context, let's say a large bomb has gone off in a shopping street, and salvageable goods, albeit a little bit shop-soiled, are strewn about the street. The owners of the premises will be well-insured and cushioned by government compensation. Therefore British soldiers attending the scene – and for that matter RUC policemen – would not be human if the temptation to do a little, er, window-shopping, didn't arise. The author can testify to an occasion where a jeweller's shop was deevastated by a bomb, and in very short time, not much was to be seen of its former window display. Various Army wives and girlfriends were seen toting suspiciously expensive looking bling on the unit's return from Ireland… not that the author asserts the two incidents were causally linked, obviously.

**(4) **In the dark times in Northern Ireland, even normal legal procedures had to amended because of the difficulty of convicting terrorist suspects in normal courts. It was just too easy for witnesses – and juries - to be intimidated by the terrorist groups. So the Diplock system evolved, with no jury, and with an unprecedented level of anonymity to witnesses prepared to testify. The trial judge heard the evidence, delivered the verdict, and passed sentence. Again, representatives of terrorist groups of both ethnicities complained and campaigned against the Diplock system on the grounds that it made conviction too easy and could be manipulated. It appears Vetinari is not above using it in Ankh-Morpork. Indeed, it may never have occurred to him to do it any other way.


	44. Swords and skullduggery

_**Slipping Between Worlds – 44**_

At the Watch training base in the old lemonade factory, Ruijterman and Hughes had finished their preparations for a training session. Eighty or so Watch recruits of various species and ethnicities had gathered behind the safety barrier they had erected from boards and sandbags, at Ruijterman's direction. Hughes, who had been filling and fusing makeshift petrol bombs using locally available lamp oil and paraffin, had noticed a phenomena in the making. Although only a private soldier and ordinary Fusilier, Boer Ruijterman had been directing, ordering, encouraging and joking with the Watchmen, and they had unquestioningly been following his orders. Some were calling him "Sergeant", and the Watch sergeants who were present were even treating him like a professional equal.

_Well, he was a sergeant in South Africa, _Hughes reflected. He watched, feeling a little envy, as Ruijterman laughed and shared some sort of African joke with the two black lads who were among the police recruits. He gathered they were being trained as policemen here so they could learn the skills of the trade and go back to their Big Chief as part of his police force, in whatever part of this world was like our Africa. Howondasomething. Whatever it was, Boer was treating them like his equals, which wasn't what he would have expected from a South African white man. There were women out there too: apparently the big police boss had put the word out that as many of his trained Watch as possible should turn up and learn from what they were about to see. One was a strikingly blonde German-looking sergeant, who somehow put the thought of Alsatian guard dogs into Hughes' mind. Maybe she was a dog-handler of some kind: all coppers used them, and to Hughes' mind, people of the doggy kind always grew to look like their animals, look at Mrs Wynne-Parry-Jones who bred setters. She had the same sort of long sleek slightly overfed look about her.

And there was that red-haired woman who'd slipped in within the last five minutes: well, more of a girl, really, who looked indefinably out of place, in a long black hooded cloak over some sort of khaki. The other Watchmen seemed to accept her, but apart from the blonde sergeant and the yellow-bearded Dwarf, nobody seemed in a hurry to get all that close to her. Boer seemed to know her, though, and they'd exchanged a few pleasantries in Cheesehead talk.**(1)**

Hughes sighed. Cheesehead was totally impenetrable to him. There was a reason why they called incomprehensible talk "double-Dutch", and he suspected the South African version of the language was, if anything, triple-Dutch. Evidently the redhead was a local Cheese.

How did that song go…

_No he's never met a nice South African,  
And that's not bloody surprising man!  
Cause we're a bunch of arrogant bastards  
Who hate black people__**(2)**_

Funny, yes, but it didn't fit Boer, even though he could be a bit intense and moody at times. He got on perfectly OK with Darkie Williams, for one thing. And the girl seemed to get on OK with the black lads too, and had no reserve around them. And now it was starting….

"Like you, we are for the moment recruits to your City Watch" Boer called, stepping forward. "You will know we _errived_ here a day or two ego from a different place. This was eccidental and we mean no herm or ill-will to this City. End I em eware it caused you all no end of bother! So Commender Vimes spoke with us, end we made a plen. While we ere here, while we ere your guests end waiting to get home egain, if we ever cen, we will repay your hospitality by working with you. We are to learn from you, end I em sure we will learn meny skills. We ere elso to pess on to you skills we hev, which you may not. "

Ruijterman idly tossed a bottle from one hand to the other. A liquid sloshed inside it, and a long rag protruded from the stoppered mouth.

"We learned thet when we errived here from our own world, somebody else crossed with us. Thet somebody is a man you have ell been made ewere of, who is dangerous end unscrupulous. He brought with him end pessed on the secret of a weapon which was used against you yesterday. This weapon nearly killed a Wetchman. This is celled a _petrol bomb_ end it is very dangerous. I hev one to hend here. I will pass it to you so that you mey be ewere of whet you are looking for. Observe, then pess it elong. End – nobody smokes. Or else there _will_ be an explosion."

He passed the bottle to the nearest Watchman, who took it gingerly.

"It is safe es long es it is not exposed to fire."

Ruijterman then donned his riot helmet and a pair of thick gloves. These would be necessary for the Demonstration.

"Anyone cen essemble twenty or thirty of these in an hour, given a supply of bottles, regs end petrol. By "_petrol_", I mean any suitably inflemmeble liquid. I em told you do not hev petrol on this world es we know it. We hev experimented with lamp-oil, heating oil, end the turpentine your painters use to clean their brushes. Ell ere inflemmeble. End ell are readily evailable."

He nodded at Hughes, who clicked his cigarette lighter.

As he continued the lecture, the first new star appeared in the sky, arced upwards, and began falling to earth. Ruijterman judged its arc, and unhurriedly stepped a few paces to his right.

There were gasps as the earth about ten yards away erupted in flame and a shower of glass shards. Some flew far enough to hit the sandbags and rattle off the wooden barrier.

"The bottle is a reservoir of inflemmeble liquid. A length of reg, one end in the liquid like a wick, is secured and lit."

A second bomb was thrown, seemingly straight at him. Again, Ruijterman judged its vector and this time stepped to his right, as the earth erupted again.

"Once the wick is lit, it is not wise to continue to hold the device. Sometimes eccidents hev heppened when the thrower hes dithered, end is still holding the bottle when it explodes. We cell these _own goals_, or _poetic justice_, end they erre most setisfying!"

A third bomb arced over. Again, Ruijterman glanced up, and avoided it.

"Experience end femiliarity are a defence egainst the weapon. Yesterday, thet experience wes lacking, end a Wetchman was injured."

He nodded at one of the three small fires in the yard, that sizzled and crackled in the drizzling rain.

"End they may be used in ell weathers end cerry on burning until the inflemmeble liquid is consumed." he said. "Water alone only disperses the burning liquid. This is lighter then water, so it floats on the top. Now, observe."

Several of the older sword-fighting dummies, leaking stuffing and easily written off the Watch inventory, had been set up on stands. Hughes had tied a petrol bomb to one, which had been dressed in condemned uniform items.**(3)**

Constable Dorfl, at his own request, had stepped forward and was standing ready as Hughes lit the bomb and stood back. Well back.

There were groans as the bomb exploded, and the dummy went up in flames, rocking on its stand with the force of the blast and dripping burning liquid.

"This simulates a direct hit." Ruijterman said. "Had this been a person, we would be looking at serious injuries. Mr Dorfl?"

Hughes and Ruijterman had been advised by Vimes to allow the golem constables to follow their own natures. Golems had definite opinions about fires, eg they should not be permitted to happen. Stamping out the last of an earlier bomb on the way, Dorfl wrapped the burning dummy in a blanket, suffocating the fire. Hughes was relieved at the presence of what amounted to indestructible fire bobbies. He suspected diplomacy would be stretched a bit if they ended up burning down the Watch base.

"The fire may only be extinguished by smothering it. A blenket, or a cloak, or a large sheet of whetever nature. Once alight, it is to be denied the air. If you are hit by burning petrol, sendy ground like this is elso useful. You drop to the ground end roll, using the earth end send to smother the fire."

Ruijterman grinned at the Watchmen.

"Now is enyone confident enough to come forward end volunteer to dodge the bombs we throw et them? We hev a seying in our Army. _Knowledge dispels fear._ These things cen be countered. I think… you!"

Special Constable Smith-Rhodes stepped forward. This looked like _fun_, and she wouldn't have missed this for the world…_and they know the Concordat. __**Knowledge Dispels Fear**__ is an Assassin maxim too! _

* * *

Meanwhile at the Palace, Lord Vetinari was examining Fusilier Powell with interest. To Holtack, this really was a meeting of worlds. The public gallery had been cleared of the relatives of the convicted civilian criminals, the dazed and bitter-looking parents of Andy Shank and his posse, and those of the Hergenian rioters, quickly but sympathetically hurried out. Now, the interested eyes of City Council members, together with accredited journalists, were all on Powell and Williams.

"Your officer describes you as a _Queen's Hard Bargain_." Vetinari said, genially. "I understand that to mean a soldier who in peacetime presents a disciplinary and administrative nightmare to his sergeant and officers, but who reliably redeems himself when a real shooting battle breaks out, and who proves himself more than competent at the really important things in soldiering. Therefore, despite a lamentable disciplinary record, you were allowed to sign on for a second and then a third period of enlistment, even though it speaks volumes that you have been passed over for promotion even to the rank of lance-corporal."

"Wouldn't want it, sir." Powell said, with feeling. "Mr Holtack has threatened to promote me. Twice."

Powell shuddered at a potent disciplinary threat that Holtack had stumbled upon completely by accident. A man hardened to charges had been utterly appalled at the idea of being assigned greater responsibility, and the threat of a stripe had kept Powell out of the orderly room for a good six weeks.

"This suggests that much is forgiven and your regiment has gone to extraordinary lengths to keep you. So at bottom, I am making the assumption that you are thought of as a good soldier. The talent for evading arrest that you both displayed indicates resourcefulness and ability."

Holtack winced. It was true that Powell was looked upon with a sort of despairing benevolence, even by the Colonel. The fact he was a mainstay of the Battalion rugby side, of course, had something to do with it. But, damn it, the man was hard to dislike, even knowing he was a hard man from the Valleys, and on the day he'd enlisted, the Glamorgan police force had taken the night off to celebrate. One of the references that had got him into the Army had been a suspiciously glowing one from a chief inspector, in fact, asking the recruiting authority to forgive several juvenile crimes committed, in the hope and expectation that there was something here the Army could turn into a reliable and worthy citizen.

Vetinari read his face, and a ghostly smile flickered at the corners of the Patrician's mouth. _He doesn't miss a thing. He's talking to Powell, but watching me for a reaction. _

"Commander Vimes, have all the missing items from addresses on the Soake been returned?"

"Yes, sir. Although there was a bit of an altercation at the Yard, when Mrs Jackson from number one-hundred and forty-six tried to walk away with items belonging to Mrs Clemency at number one hundred and thirty-two. Apparently they were better quality than hers, or something."

Vetinari nodded.

"So we can perhaps view the clothing and blanketry items as having been _temporarily borrowed_ rather than _stolen_." he said.

"Good. That simplifies things. And the issue of Mr Flowerdew? I do notice he is not inclined to withdraw charges for theft and breaking and entering, and does appear intent on pursuing his losses through the courts."

"Mr Flowerdew is currently recovering in the Lady Sybil, sir. Contusion and concussion after being struck on the head with one of those _rubber bullets_. Apparently it was aimed at Reg Shoe in the middle of a panic about the presumed dietary habits of zombies."

Vimes paused as Mr Slant, the City's foremost lawyer, stirred and looked disapprovingly at Williams.

"We do not eat. Anything at all. Perhaps a spoonful of formaldehyde now and again to preserve the gut. But most definitively not _brains_."

Williams averted the old zombie's gaze.

"That is a known part of the diet of _ghouls_!" Slant said, definitively. "Although I do feel personally affronted by the assertion, as a lawyer, I must be objective and accept that zombies only exist on the Roundworld as a part of mythology and fable, and as a rather luridly-presented bogeyman for popular entertainment. Fusilier Williams can hardly be blamed for reacting according to his conditioning, although I would strongly recommend he attends a Species Sensitivity Course."

Slant nodded with satisfaction: compulsory lectures in species awareness, Undead rights and political correctness were now a part of the lexicon of punishment, and were therefore shunned and feared by all right-minded people.

"I believe Ms Partleigh and Mrs Winkling are jointly leading such a course in the next few weeks." Mr Slant added, smoothly.

"This would not be a bad idea for all our Visitors." Vetinari said, thoughtfully. He routinely condemned perpetrators of inter-ethnic and inter-species hate crimes to this new and inventive form of punishment. "I will make the necessary arrangements. But the issue of the robbery from and assault upon the person of Mr Flowerdew. Which I note involved the discharge of a Gonne, albeit one modified to dispense chastisement rather than a lethal wound. As Mr Flowerdew is regrettably not here to plead his case, I will decide."

Vetinari smiled genially around the room.

"I rule that as the goods were returned in an acceptable condition to their owners, no further action need be taken on the theft charges and these are allowed to lie on file. On the assault charges against Mr Shank and other named individuals, these are dismissed on the grounds that Powell and Williams acted in legitimate self-defence against three unlicenced thieves. Any goods or money taken from those individuals are forfeit to them, as this is a hazard of unlicenced theft: the possibility is always there that the perceived victim turns out to be a harder proposition than they can handle.

"However, money and goods abstracted from the one licenced thief present must, according to common practice and Guild law, be returned, or compensation paid. Therefore the dagger, knuckleduster and Guild membership card removed from the body of Mr Marcus "Jumbo" Etherington are to be surrendered to Mr Boggis of The Thieves' Guild. The defendants are also advised to pay a Guild premium to allow them full immunity from licenced theft while in this city – has this been explained to them?"

Holtack asked leave to speak. Vetinari nodded.

"Sir, yesterday I paid the Thieves' Guild for a group insurance scheme which I understood covered myself and Fusiliers Ruijterman and Hughes. As this is a group immunity, can it be read that it also covers Powell, Fusilier Williams and Sergeant Williams?"

"Mr Boggis?" Vetinari invited him. The fussy and be-bowlered little man in the brown suit stood up. He didn't seem happy, and pointed out that the platinum scheme was meant to cover all named individuals within a common group, such as a family, or a small common workplace. Holtack then pointed out that guided by Miss Wiggs of the Guild of Assassins, he had very carefully stipulated that immunity from Thieves' Guild attentions covered all personnel of the Royal Welch who found themselves in the city of Ankh-Morpork, which by definition included the three men currently in the room who had not been present yesterday.

"A bargain for a hundred and fifty dollars, I think" Holtack said, cheerfully. "Which included an element of compensation for damaged Thieves. And at least you get a couple of second-hand weapons today that the Guild can sell on."

Boggis glared at him.

_Whoops, another enemy. Ah well, he can line up with Rust and Selachii and the rest. _

Vetinari smiled the ghost of a smile.

"I rule that this adequately covers the issue of good standing with the Guild of Thieves." he said. "No further action need be taken, as Mr Boggis should be grateful the actions of these two men uncovered breach of Guild law by the aforesaid Mr Etherington. But I cannot entirely overlook the break-in to the personal office of Mr Flowerdew, senior park-keeper at Hide Park, nor the theft of milk, sugar and teabags and unlawful use of his premises. A certain distress is always caused to the victim of a burglary and this must be taken into account. Therefore I rule that the defendants pay compensation, in the form of a box of teabags, two pints of milk and a pound of sugar. I also rule that they each perform ten hours of community service as labourers in the Park – Mr Flowerdew was here some weeks ago, arguing for more labour, at City expense, to dig over and replant new flowerbeds on the King's Way side of the Park. As we have two fit and capable young men who would benefit from hard work in the fresh air, and this work clearly needs doing, although in a way that does not strain the City coffers, I now believe I can oblige him. I also request, gentlemen, that you use this as an opportunity to build bridges with Mr Flowerdew and express the appropriate degree of contrition for the inconvenience you caused him. I will now speak a few words of warning on the subject of _gonnes,_ and then I will release you into the custody of your commanding officer, Lieutenant Holtack. Who will be responsible for your impeccable character and good conduct while guests of my City."

Holtack suppressed another wince. _Now show me the pigsty. I'll organise you a few flying pigs while I'm about it. _Then he remembered he had an asset, Sergeant Williams, and felt better about it. So long as he could get his sergeant out of trouble too.

He listened to Vetinari informing Powell and Williams that bringing gonnes into the City, let alone using them, carried a death sentence. While he could not set the law completely aside, he was minded to be lenient, and had accepted the point of view expressed by Lieutenant Holtack the previous day that as soldiers under a clear chain of command, they were acting under orders, and that only the most senior officer from whom the orders emanated should be subject to the ultimate sanction. Therefore, Lieutenant Holtack, who is under a suspended sentence of death, carries the burden for you all. That should represent sufficient sanction. Should a more senior officer from your unit appear on the Discworld, the death sentence on the Lieutenant will be commuted and will then apply to the officer of highest rank. That is just and fair. But you will surrender your weapons and all associated items of equipment to the custody of the City. Any attempt to retrieve and use them will be treated as a hostile act and the sanctions will apply.

Nor will you seek to communicate the secret of the _gonne_, concerning their manufacture or use, to any except authorised representatives of the City. This too will be a capital offence. This particularly applies in the case of foreign diplomats or intelligence operatives seeking the secret. If any approach should be made by foreign governments, you are to disclose this immediately. Commander Vimes and such Watchmen who have handled _gonnes_, and members of the Guild of Assassins who, during the confused events of the last few days, have been given basic training and explanation of the principles involved, will also be so bound to secrecy. I will request Lord Downey to enforce compliance on, I believe, two Guild members who have been allowed to handle the weapons.

"You will receive a copy of this judgement in writing. Lieutenant Holtack, I look to you to police your men in this matter. Thank you, gentlemen. You may stand down."

And then Sergeant Williams was being marched forwards, flanked by two red-uniformed Palace guardsmen, his battledress making a marked contrast. He right-turned and put up the sort of salute that would have won plaudits at Pirbright.

Stalling the harrumphing indignation of Lord Selachii, Vetinari consulted his notes.

"You are Sergeant Dafydd Williams?"

"I am that, sir, aye."

"The last of our _guests_ to be called to justice. And another who evaded immediate detection, albeit in a most remarkable way. Would you care to tell us your story, Sergeant?"

Sergeant Williams then related his tale – one minute leading an assault on the front of a building where an IRA sniper was concealed, the next, a psychedelic explosion of light and noise, resolving itself into a street in a strange and unfamiliar city where he was all alone and sensing a need to get under cover very quickly.

Fortunately, he'd come across this tavern with the Prince of Wales feathers on the pub sign, although he'd wondered why it was called the Prince of Llamedos. Hearing a familiar song being sung in Welsh, he had entered and made the acquaintance of some very friendly Welsh soldiers, although in the sort of uniforms that had not been seen on his world for nearly two centuries. And then the scheme had been hatched, over a few beers, to get him to a safe place where he understood he would be looked after while some senior people were notified and could assess who he was and whether his presence posed any risk. So he had effectively joined the Llamedosian Regiment, at least temporarily… and in response to the very senior officer of that regiment who was shouting about his being a spy and acting under orders, this was expressively not the case, sir, as even if he was spying, who could he report to? He did not know if other men of his unit had also arrived in this place, and he was a hundred per cent certain Lieutenant Holtack knew nothing – he had to assume that he was on his own and acting independently.

Vetinari nodded, and mildly requested silence from Lord Selachii.

Sergeant Williams then told the rest of his story – his interview with RSM Dickins, his going out with the troops on crowd-control duty, his eventual detection by Major Jefferies.

Lord Selachii stood up, in a rage.

"Now we've heard the confession, can we get to the point and pronounce sentence?" he demanded. "We've heard it from the man's own mouth! He's a spy! He has confessed to infiltrating my Regiment! Aided and abetted by some very surprising people! There's only one sentence for that sort of thing, Havelock, and it's death!"

Vetinari raised a hand.

"There is more evidence to hear yet, I think. Regimental Sergeant-Major Dickens?"

"And I want a word with you _too_, later, Mister Dickens!" Selachii snapped, as his RSM marched forwards and saluted.

"Mr Dickins" the Patrician said. "You were aware almost from the start concerning the true identity of sergeant Williams?"

"Yes, sir. I took the opportunity to have a long personal chat with him, in which I ascertained who he was and where he was from, and I took the decision to allow him to continue doing the trade he knows best, that of being an Army sergeant. I was certain he posed no threat to the Regiment or to the city, and I also took the point of view that skilled and experienced sergeants are as rare as hens' teeth, and a Regiment can never have enough of them. I ensured he was kept either under my direct personal supervision or under that of other Sergeants of the Regiment. He had an opportunity to conclusively prove himself yesterday afternoon, and I must say he discharged his allocated duties to the full satisfaction of myself and of the acting commanding officer, Major Jefferies. At no point did he seek to disguise the fact, either in conversation with me or with others, that he is from another army regiment in a country which is not ours. And I would suggest, sir, that his uniform makes it difficult for him to pretend to be of this world in the first place! He also willingly surrendered his weapon into our custody, and I saw to it that it was safely locked up, as I did not want no accidents to ensue. These do not occur to me to be the actions of a spy or a saboteur."

Vetinari nodded.

"And your motivation was?"

"The well-being and operational efficency of my Regiment, sir. We are currently two sergeants deficient on the nominal rolls. And none of the corporals is, in my mind, experienced enough yet to be made up. I was not going to lose a skilled man who arrived at exactly the right time. A bit of local skills training and time to settle in, and I would have requested the Adjutant to make his standing official, with a swearing-in and everything so that it is all above board."

"I see" said Vetinari. "Thank you for your testimony, Mr Dickens. Is Major Jeffries on call?"

Jeffries stepped forward, after receiving a scathing look from his commanding officer, and made his own account of how he had discovered Williams to be one of the alien visitors.

"To his credit, he had performed absolutely magnificently in yesterday's emergency, and justified the trust Mr Dickens placed in him. He also admitted freely to who he was and did not try to conceal anything. I would sign him up like a shot if he were available!"

Vetinari looked across at Lord Selachii.

"Bernard, it appears to be only you who is of the opinion that Sergeant Williams is a spy and a threat. But you have only just met him today, as I recall, whereas Mr Dickens and Major Jeffries have both spoken to him at great length. You did not, in fact, reach home before late last night, where you disdained to hear reports of the day from your officers, saying in a rather complacent way, if my report is correct, that _all that rubbish can wait for tomorrow, I'm off to bed. _Well, tomorrow has arrived."

Vetinari nodded.

"The charge of spying against Sergeant Williams is dismissed. I am happy to accept the testimony of two of the most experienced soldiers in the regiment, to the effect that an experienced sergeant from another military jurisdiction, separated from his chain of command, was taken in at the barracks and informally offered employment in the trade for which he is trained. He repaid this trust by exemplary leadership yesterday. Even though I suspect that the ancient and honourable society of Sergeants had a hand in this and their first imperative may have been to look after their own, it rebounded to the good of the Regiment and the City. I also accept that both Mr Dickins and Major Jeffries monitored the situation and while they accepted a new sergeant, they were not fools and elected to monitor his movements, associations and actions before acting. As indeed good tradecraft mandates, if spying is suspected. There is no point in detaining one man, if the others behind him are not detected.

"I also express the hope that no retributitive or punitive action be taken against the RSM and the Major for the hard decision they took in extraordinary times, in the regrettable absence of the Regimental Commander. Indeed, I compliment both on the soundness of their action. That is _all, _Lord Selachii. Remember firstly that your express command to the officers delegated to lead your Regiment was _Do as you see fit. _In my opinion, Major Jeffries and Mr Dickins fulfilled that order admirably. They cannot, therefore, be disciplined for following your order to the letter. And secondly, do bear in mind that I am Commander-in-Chief of this City's armed forces and the highest authority. In that capacity, I outrank you and I may, with extreme reluctance and only in the direst necessity, countermand or amend such orders that you issue.

"However, Sergeant Williams, I know you were listening when I pronounced sentence earlier today concerning _gonnes._ Those strictures and sanctions apply to you too. I now release you into the custody of your commanding officer, Lieutenant Holtack, who as before is held responsible for your continuing good behaviour while a guest of this City."

"Thank you, sir, but may I make one request?" asked Williams.

"Proceed."

"I understand the reluctance to let us have access to the guns, sir, but I understand we all brought personal weapons into this world, and I make it that four of them have been fired. As Sergeant of this platoon, I would be failing in my duties if I did not insist a weapon, once fired, must be _cleaned_ and cleaned _thoroughly._ I therefore request permission to access the weapons and have my Fusiliers clean them. I would expect nothing less in ordinary circumstances!"

The Patrician blinked.

"Fascinating. Commander Vimes, in your opinion is it possible for Sergeant Williams to safely have his wish?"

"Don't see why not, sir, if I can have a crossbow-armed Watchman standing behind each man!"

Holtack stood.

"Sir, the weapons without ammunition are just wooden clubs. If we are allowed access to the rifles, but not to the ammo, then this request may safely be granted."

_It'll remind the Toms we belong to an Army, and Sergeant Williams is God. Which is not a bad thing. _

Vetinari stared at him for a long time. Then he nodded.

"I accede to this request, on the proviso only the weapons and not the ammunition are issued, and then only under Watch armed guard. After all, a sergeant is not a sergeant without routines to impose and weapons-cleaning to supervise! Make arrangements, Sir Samuel."

* * *

And at the Lemonade Factory, the training session in petrol bomb awareness was drawing to a close. Ruijterman had just described a nasty local practice called _necklacing_, to groans from the Watchmen, and had said it was a very good reason for black soldiers under his command not to be taken prisoner by rebels and foreign guerrillas. He'd heard of instances of it being used in black townships as a grisly form of local lynch-law. With a growing black Howondalandian population here – well, you never knew.**(4)**

He finished by demonstrating the refined version of the petrol bomb that used sugar as well as petrol. One such had been tied to a condemned dummy and ignited; Ruijterman compared this to the petrol-only version, and invited the watchers to observe how burning sugar melted and stuck.

"Fortunately we did not see this often in Ireland. Possibly because while petrol is freely stolen, sugar has to be _bought_. And the Irish prefer it in their tea." he said, drily.

"There is a more sophisticated version called the Molotov cocktail. But this relies on chemicels thet are not freely available. I do not think you will see them on these streets, but to be sure I will need to discuss them with a chemist."

He grinned.

"Thenk you all for your time end ettention, end I hope nobody hes eny bed dreams tonight! Lesson dismissed!"

The Watchmen dispersed, and Hughes and a squad of golems and trolls got round to clearing up and dismantling the safety barrier.

Johanna-Smith-Rhodes found Ruijterman.

"That was a most informative lesson." she said, in _Vondalaans_. "Thank you for delivering it."

"My thanks to you, miss!" he replied, in _Afrikaans_. "I'm pleased you were first to volunteer. It made things easier for others."

"I enjoyed it! But you mention something called _molotovcocktails_? Please explain."

"They are a more sophisticated device that does away with the dangerous need to light a wick. Do you have chemical elements called _phosphorous_ and _potassium_ on this world? Potassium is a light, unstable, metal that cuts easily with a knife. But if exposed to air, it burns uncontrollably. It is usually kept submerged in oil or water to prevent it from drying out. A quantity is added to the petrol in the bottle where it is inert. The bottle is then tightly sealed. When the bottle is thrown and breaks, the explosive metal burns and ignites the petrol. Add enough, and the force of the explosion sends particles of the burning metal for some distance. If it hits skin, it burns uncontrollably down to the bone."

Johanna shuddered slightly.

"We have that metal, ja." she said. "It is hard and expensive to refine and we only use it in small quantities at the School, to demonstrate its properties. But I see this is an application our world has not thought of."

Ruijterman looked sympathetically at her.

_A very pleasingly attractive young woman, _he thought_. But I believe she is part of a couple with the scientist, the technomancer we depend on to get us all back home. It would not do to offend him. And she has killing skills the SAS could learn from. Appreciate, Hans, but do not touch. There is also the very pretty Heidi, and I believe she is unattached and presents no complications, save for her also being Assassin. _

"If time permits, miss, I can show you what I know about explosives. I believe you teach such things at your school?"

"Thank you. Yes, I would like that. Perhaps I can get permission for you to speak to a class. I also came to say thank you for the mars bars .We have very clever people here who are working on copying them, so it won't be long before they are on sale in the shops here!"

"I look forward to that. But if you will excuse me, I should be assisting with tidying up Commander Vimes' parade ground!"

She laughed.

"Ask for me at the Guild, mijnheer Ruijterman. My pupils will benefit from your teaching!"

And then she turned and was gone.

* * *

And then there was a break in proceedings at the Palace.

Holtack briefly congratulated his man on being free to live in Ankh-Morpork, and said the next order of business is finding you somewhere to stay. Then Colonel Wrangle of the Palace Guards walked over and introduced himself.

"Selachii's never going to have you back in his Regiment, sergeant." He said, conversationally. "And you'd be wisest not to try to rejoin. He isn't really a very good officer. One of the old school, who measure a victory by the body count. The odds are, if you were allowed in, at the first opportunity he'd send you on a death-or-glory mission. What I can offer you, if your Lieutenant agrees, is detached service with the Guards. I need good Sergeants too! "

Sergeant Williams looked to Holtack for approval.

"Go ahead. It's a valid offer. An open-ended contract recognising you are, in fact, a liaison or exchange man with the British Army. I've got no objection to that!"

And then Holtack himself had been buttonholed, in a most engaging way. The dark-haired Assassin woman was at his side, commanding attention. He was impressed: he hadn't seen her move.

"May I see your sword, mon brave?" she asked, in a very French accent. "Such things interest me."

"bien sur, madame." He replied, lifting the scabbard at the neck, and taking the sword blade with the other hand, drew it out, offering it to her hilt-first. She tested the blade with a finger, nodded at its sharpness, then nodded. She took a couple of experimental slashes, and pulled a face, Then she handed it back to Holtack with a depreciating smile.

"A typical officer's sabre, I am afraid." she said. "Good for shgow, less so for fighting. If I may advise, the grip is polished brass. It sparkles on parade, _assurement,_ but if your palm sweats, and it will in a fight, it will turn in the hand, so that what you intend as a culminating slash with the blade becomes but a chastising sting with the flat. If you would take my advice, bind it tightly with leather cord, so that you may be sure of the grip."

"You know about swords, madame?" Holtack inquired, clumsily re-sheathing the blade.

She laughed a delighted laugh.

"Now I know you are not of this world! I teach sword-craft at the Assassins Guild School. My name is Emmanuelle-Marie Lapoignard les Deux-Épées. It carries a little weight among practitioners of the sword in this place."

"Enchantée de vous connaitre, madame." Holtack said, dredging up the formal French. _Damn, this woman is attractive! _

She raised a grudgingly approving eyebrow.

"An educated young officer, I see." she said. "I also perceive you, forgive me, have little skills as yet with the sword. Such things may be rectified. While I do not normally take private pupils, as my life is already a busy one, I am sure I can find a little time for you. Forgive me, as lord Downey is seeking my attention. But by all means, ask for me at the Guild when you are ready to commence learning. Au revoir!"

And she had moved on.

Commander Vimes frowned. Something was wrong here. It had only been this morning that the lad was asking about sword-fighting lessons. And by dinnertime, one of the best sword-fighters in the city, an Assassin by trade and vocation, is offering him her personal attention. And who had he mentioned it to, apart from himself, Sybil, and a roomful of Ramkin servants? Willikins did suspect the bloody Assassins had a spy in the house…he glared at the Black Widow, who answered him with a sweet innocent smile.

* * *

**(1) **Er… as "boxhead" stands for German, "Cheesehead" stands for Dutch. Sorry about that, Holland.

**(2) **not sure if this song was out in 1985, but it must have been about that time. Any anachronism is due to me not doing proper research.

**(3) **Formerly worn to destruction by Nobby Nobbs.

**(4) **A nasty punishment that grew in black South Africa after independence from apartheid, but not unknown beforehand: a bound prisoner had a tyre draped around his neck, which was filled with petrol and ignited. Apparently used by ANC guerrillas against captured black South African and Rhodesian soldiers, a long time before black-self-rule.


	45. Ripley's believe it or not movie

_**Slipping Between Worlds – 45**_

_Tuesday morning, Ankh-Morpork. The Zoo._

"I see." said Lord Vetinari, bending over slightly to study the frozen creature in the glass jar, locked in time in the middle of the octagram. A blue haze of magic radiated up from the lines of the enclosing magic circle. He took great care hot to lean into or through it, suspecting the results could be somewhat inconveniencing.

He regarded the Hive-Queen with distaste.

"I also perceive the glass of the jar was beginning to crack." he said. "She was brought here just in the nick of time. My thanks to you, Miss Romanoff. And also to you, Miss Sanderson-Reeves, for managing the situation so ably."

Joan Sanderson-Reeves smiled, thinly. Once condemned to death for murder, she lived under a permanent probation, in which she had to show worth as a loyal and resourceful servant of the Assassins' Guild and the City. While she felt the chances of the sentence being activated were growing smaller with every passing year, it did no harm to demonstrate her abilities in moments such as this. It also helped her long-term chances of being approved as Lord Downey's likely successor as Chief Assassin and first-ever Mistress of the Guild. Ten years ago she would have laughed at the idea she might become so powerful in the Guild. Now it was a feasible ambition. The thought had occurred to her that in reprieving her from death and offering an Angel, this had been Vetinari's long-term plan all along.

Vetinari straightened up and leant on his cane. He addressed the small select group of people in the University Department of Crypto, Quasi, Exo, and Paranormal Zoolology where the Queen was now under the most potent magical security that could be contrived. This was backed up by mundane precautions: caustic potash crystals were banked up around the jar, glistening like lethal snow, which the Queen would have had to wade or run through should she escape from the glass prison. And should he glass break, a sprinkler system would be activated that would deluge the area of the octagram in gallons of strong potash solution. For Joan had worked out that a creature whose system was based on strong acid would necessarily fear the poison of an equally lethal caustic. It was basic alchemy, after all. Acid plus alkali equals salt and water. Any sort of flesh plus alkali reduces to lipic acids, or soap.

"Miss Romanoff, you spoke to this entity? And it said there are more like it?"

Olga Romanoff shuddered. The memory of Borrowing the alien creature's mind was still fresh and sickening.

"It is all in my report, my Lord." she said. "It told me there are others like it – _seeds_, it said - scattered in the Rimwards part of the continent. They destroyed a land called Khan-Li and are now dormant, waiting another heedless voyager who will bring them back with them. That is apparyantly how the Hive began here."

"Khan-Li." mused Vetinari, apparently to himself. "According to archaeology, once a rich advanced civilization. Then a cataclysm occurred. Today there is wasteland. Umnia. Holy Wood. We _do_ seem to run into this sort of situation quite a lot, I find."

He looked at Ponder Stibbons. Unbidden, but feeling he had to make a contribution, Ponder said

"According to Stripfettle's lore, sir, Khan-Li was destroyed by the same plague of metal trolleys and the Hive-Mind that nearly happened here. That establishes a definite link. If these things can mutate into something even more deadly after being defeated in the shopping mall stage, we now have a new problem."

"Where do they come from, Professor?" Vetinari asked.

"Sir, HEX suggests there are two possibilities. It is possible that this is some sort of genuinely alien life from outside the Discworld which has drifted in from elsewhere in Deep Space. After all, Leonard of Quirm and the cosmonauts observed things living in the high airs of this world that we had never even dreamed of. What might there be further out? "

"And the second possibility?" Vetinari inquired.

"That these are Dungeon Dimension things that were able to slip into our world and which were stable enough to find a niche here. My recordings suggest this creature is absolutely un-magical. Which suggests a _clever_ Dungeon Dimensions incursion, one that sacrificed magic for stability. One which adopted a stable shape and form with evolutionary advantages, but one that, when it dominates, destroys as assuredly and implacably as you might expect. It believes itself to be superior and that we are merely a food crop, after all."

The listeners fell silent as they contemplated the horror of the situation. Vetinari broke the silence.

"Have you considered a third way, Professor Stibbons?" he asked.

"Sir?"

"I find it strange that this thing came into being just as the wall of reality that separates us from the Roundworld broke down. It may only have been coincidence, and I trust it was, but the twinned explosions in the Hive and on the Roundworld, that blew a total of eight visitors into our City, by all accounts happened at exactly the same instant. _Exactly_ the same instant in Space-Time, a truly million-to-one chance."

Vetinari raised a quizzical eyebrow at Ponder.

"Professor, please ascertain if anything even remotely like this…creature… has ever appeared on the Roundworld. Perhaps ask the Visitors if they've seen anything like this or heard of it. Lieutenant Holtack may be found as a house-guest at Ramkin Manor. I counsel you speak to him _before_ he has his social date with Miss von Humperdinck tomorrow night. He may be in a state of shock afterwards."

"Or anaemia." somebody else muttered. There was a low laugh.

Vetinari smiled.

"The lieutenant and his men are to attend a species awareness and sensitivity training day on Thursday." he remarked. "By then, I am _sure_ he will be perfectly aware of the existence of vampires and of their particular sensitivities. Happily, the lady is a Black Ribboner, and may be relied upon to leave a useful and engaging young man in relatively full possession of his faculties."

His gaze fell upon Inspector André Loudweather of the Watch.

"Mr Vimes _did _say not to warn him, sir." André said. "His actual words were, _let the cocky little bugger find out for himself, wipe the smile off his face. He wants to learn about our city, so let Sally give a few lessons."_

"I see." said Vetinari. "My word. So long as a potentially useful young man remains substantially undamaged, of course. The outcome may well be educational for him!"

"Mr Vimes did order her not to rough him up _too_ much, sir."

Vetinari maintained a slow circle around the Queen, observing her from all angles.

"Alien. Leakage from Roundworld. A previously disregarded escapee from the Dungeon Dimensions which has awoken. Whichever way it goes, ladies and gentlemen, we have a potentially lethal problem. One that threatens the security of this City. _And that, I will not tolerate_!"

The invited guests, from the University, the Watch and the Guild of Assassins, caught the change in Lord Vetinari's tone. As one they realised the situation was deadly serious. And each prayed they would not be the one put on the spot and asked to find a solution.

"Miss Smith-Rhodes." Vetinari said, himself again. "In your opinion as my advisor on these issues, can you guarantee that this creature can be confined, indefinitely and safely, at your Zoo?"

Johanna caught the harmonics of the question and winced. She was deeply uneasy about keeping the thing here. Especially as all that separated it from freedom was hastily applied magic and half a ton of caustic potash. And Ponder had once described _Heath-Robinson magic_ to her, named after a now-deceased senior wizard whose remedies had been slapdash and dependent on the equivalent of knotted string to hold it together. She was seeing it in action, and did not like the look or the feel of it.

"No, my lord!" she said, without hesitation. As Vetinari nodded, she warmed to her theme.

"Whet if the megic fails? It hes failed before and ell menner of cetestrophe hes heppened." she said. "The time of the Red Star, for instance. End whet if a meniac erises, one who believes the creature should be released? _Religions_ form eround things like this. We hev unstable people. Whet if those erise who worship this thing es a Goddess end believe their goddess should be set free?"

"Can you not confine it as you would an especially dangerous animal?" Vetinari probed her. "You have great experience in these matters, and I note that in the history of this Zoo, there have been no serious animal escapes."

"Epert from the leopard who turned out to be a were-creature." Johanna reminded him.**(1)** "Which, sir, demonstrates the issue. Enimels are enimels. They cannot plen ehead, and live in the moment. They say the lion is king of the veldt, but thet is anthropomorphic nonsense. The lion itself does not demand tribute end elligeince end sit on a throne. It just _is. _Other enimels do not kneel in submission before the lion and hail it es King. Nor, for instance, do you see groups of hyenas huddled in a corner of the veldt, plotting revolution end fighting the lions for a a Hyena Republik. They just_ are. _This is a sentient creature that _cen_ plen end reason end consider its future es a Queen over all of us. You cennot keep a sentient creature in a zoo cage. The were-leopard proved thet. It will watch and plen end _it will escape_. End I do not wish to be its jailer. I wish it to be removed, my Lord. One wey or enother!"

"Thank you, miss Smith-Rhodes. That concurs with my general appreciation of this situation. Does anyone disagree? No? Then I consider we must come up for a plan for the assured disposal of this thing. No great rush, of course."

* * *

Philip Holtack was learning about dragons. Touring the pens with Lady Sybil and sweating slightly in borrowed protective gear, it reminded him of Mrs Wynne-Parry-Jones back in the depot town. After persuading a new and reluctant Army vet to put the regulation book away and conform to the realities of Army life by going to her kennels and treating her dogs _pro bono, _he had made a friend in the Batallion's second-in-command and his wife. Which had been no small thing for a newish subaltern finding his feet in his first posting. Mrs WPJ, a sleek red-haired woman in her forties who reminded him of the dogs she bred, had insisted on Holtack being invited over for dinner and touring the kennels with her. Once he was over the all-pervasive smell of thirty or forty dogs, he had quite enjoyed himself and had toadied shamelessly to the woman who was de-facto Number Three in the informal Army Wives hierarchy, after the Colonel's wife and the Regimental Sergeant-Major's lady. He had realised that in the Crufts fancy, there was big money to be made from pedigree puppies, especially if they came from placed show-dogs. In fact, the Wynne-Parry-Jones' were relying on it as a a main income that would dwarf the Major's pay and later on his retirement pension. Holtack had also noted the unpaid labour put in by barracks-rats, daughters of army families of all ranks, who just loved being around animals and clamoured to put time in with the dogs. Not having to pay the labour or indeed the vets' bill was a great saving, he thought.

This was a good transferable skill in the Ramkin dragon-kennels. He had flirted with the giggling young kennel-maids, who he noted all seemed to be called Emma or Emily or Emilia or variations on a name. Sybil had proudly introduced him to her dragons, which had been an education. He had expected things like scaled-down Smaugs with the same sort of haughty unshakeable superiority he had seen in the pack of red setters near Chepstow. Idly, he'd wondered if they bedded down on mini-hoards of gold and silver and jewels.

The small fat waddling things with stubby little wings and a look of vague short-sighted amiability had been the last thing he expected to see. But he had to admit they had a certain comical charm, especially the hatchlings.

"I borrowed one of those clever little incubator devices from Johanna at the Zoo." Sybil said. "We had to turn it up to maximum and then tinker with it a bit, but it works a treat for artificially nurturing the eggs! Johanna pops by now and again to look over the chaps. She only normally uses them for the usual egg-laying species, birds and mundane reptiles, so it interests her to see how the technology adapts itself for dragons."

"The only bloody Assassin to have a free pass into this house." Sam Vimes said, ruefully. "Mind you, she's a Special Constable, so that gives her a certain right of access. She promises not to try to inhume me while she's here and I think I can believe that."

"She _was_ useful when that young gel of Alice's fell into the dunninkin." Sybil said. "Good to have a School teacher on hand to help fish her out and send her back with a flea in her ear and a report for Alice. Anyway, you're forgetting Jocasta."

"Oh, yes." Vimes said, thoughtfully. "_Jocasta._ The way she's been coming on, I might try to poach her for the Watch too. She's got the makings of another Assassin Special. And it'd annoy Donald."

Vimes reached down into the incubator and carefully picked up a hatchling, tickling its throat to induce it to flame.

"I really wish you wouldn't do that, Sam!" Sybil said, in a firm voice.

Holtack rummaged in a pocket and brought out his cigarette lighter.

"Thanks." Sam Vimes said, and inhaled gratefully. Then he looked again.

"You people all seem to carry one of those. Clever little devices. Mind if I take a closer look? We sort of took them for granted the other night in amongst all the other interesting kit you were carrying. There's nothing like them here."

"People use hatchlings!" Sybil said, quivering with indignation. "Then throw them away when they get too big! We try to educate people out of that – they can go to the tobacconist like anyone else and buy a box of matches! And THEN my _husband_ goes and does it! Which rather puts a crimp in our re-education efforts!"

"Sorry, dear." Sam Vimes said, automatically.

The hatchling returned to its fellows, he studied the lighter closely.

"So there's a reservoir of inflammable liquid in here. It's under pressure and goes to a gas when this lever is pressed. At the same time, this rotating wheel strikes sparks off a flintlock. Which ignites the gas. A controllable flame is there until you either release the lever or… _Aaargh_!"

"Or until it gets too hot to hold." said Holtack, deftly catching the dropped lighter.

"Hard to make, are they?"

"Well, factories turn them out in the tens of thousands." Holtack said. "This is a refillable model. There's a valve in the base. You can buy a can of lighter fuel with a corresponding valve that locks into this one, and refill it."

Then the idea struck Holtack and Vimes together.

"A simple idea. Few moving parts. Nobody's seen them on this world before…"

"It'll need money to set up." Holtack said.

"Money is no problem." Vimes murmured.

"Security. We need a patent."

"I'll talk to George Pony. Get him to draw a plan and see if making them is feasible. And I'll see if that zombie bastard Slant can make a patent watertight and draw up the legal paperwork. You know, set up a company. Patent is yours. Pony organises manufacture with the Guild of Artisans. Ramkin money backs it. You know, if this takes off, the problem of paying your men is solved."

Sybil smiled. Things seemed to be working out nicely, and just maybe Sam could now be persuaded to refrain from hatchling-abuse.

And then Watch Constable Olga Romanoff arrived, requesting the presence of Lieutenant Holtack at the Zoo to attend on His Lordship. Secrecy was required.

"Better go, then." Vimes advised. "I'll lay on a coach. Wonder what he wants this time?"

"Oh, I can answer that, sir…" said Olga.

She recounted her day in the coach taking them to the City Zoo.

"So it's safe to assume His Lordship doesn't want us to help him spend an afternoon unwinding from pressures of State by feeding buns to the elephants." Holtack remarked.

Sam Vimes snorted.

"When does Havelock Vetinari ever _unwind_?" he asked, rhetorically. "And I've heard about this creature. It half-killed my Watch Igor and Olga here. He'll want to _know_, if it's come out of your planet!"

"Looks like a mini-dinosaur, mouth full of slavering teeth, spits acid. And you say the egg was forcibly laid down your Igor's throat and burst out of his _stomach_?" Holtack asked, a horrible and insane suspicion beginning to burgeon.

"That's the bunny. Or rather, the acid-dribbling homicidally insane bunny. Seen it before, have you?" Vimes inquired.

"I _may_ have done…." Holtack said, uncertainly, wondering how the Hell he was going to explain this one.

_Zombies exist on this world. And trolls. And dwarves. Things out of myths and fables. Zombies are half-myth and half something out of horror movies. Is it possible, then, that a horror movie on our world is a sort of modern myth? In the old days, a myth took thousands of years to embed itself in the minds of millions of people. An atmospheric and scary movie, well-done, can do the same in a matter of months and get into the heads of millions. And think of the "War of the Worlds" thing that caused hundreds of thousands to panic overnight. Damn it, man, you've just inadvertently replayed it here… what if the powerful myths and stories of our world all become realities here? Ponder Stibbons. I need to talk to him. He said something in passing about a magical field surrounding this planet. And something about something called "narrativium" that our world doesn't have…_

"Well, have you or haven't you?" demanded Vimes, impatiently. "Even on your world a creature like that should be pretty easy to be definite about. What sort of identity parades do your police organise?"

Holtack, his train of thought interrupted**(2)****, **smiled weakly.

"Yes, I've seen it. But will anyone believe me?"

The Zoo was outside the City, a large and sprawling park growing on otherwise virgin land. The mingled sounds and smells of a thousand animals filled the air, and the noise of excited visitors filled the space around them.

"There was nothing here two years ago." Vimes said, conversationally. "Then there was one of _those_ situations and of all people, the bloody Guild of Assassins financed it. They're pulling in a nice steady profit now, rot them."**(3)**

Holtack still had some of the childlike excitement of a boy who'd been taken to Chester Zoo and the Welsh Mountain Zoo by his parents. A brief surge of loss and regret filled him as he thought about them, watching the sights and listening to the sounds as the coach clopped on. And then…

"What the hell are _those_?" he asked. The creatures had the forward parts of goats and the tails of large fish, maybe dolphins. Their habitat was suitably amphibian.

"Wyverns" said Vimes. "You don't have those? Oh, and that's a manticore over there. Watch out for the hippogryffs! We 're almost here now, this is the University's end of the Zoo park. Vetinari's in the University building."

Holtack was ushered into a long low building, exuding academia, where the sign on the door proclaimed it to be the Unseen University School of Quasi, Crypto, Exo and PseudoZoology. (Maximum Security Wing). A corridor or two later, they were in a well-guarded large room, guarded on the door by a Watchman and a black-clad Assassin, who waved them in.

"They keep animals in here that are just too dangerous for public display." Vimes explained. "Basilisks, chimeras, hydras and so on. Apparently basilisks are an endangered species and they've started a breeding programme. Silly sods."

Lord Vetinari was recognisable by his long, spare, figure, leaning on a cane, his back to them and contemplating something in a glass jar. Holtack recognised Ponder Stibbons, his girlfriend Johanna, the South African…no, the _Howondalandian_ – Assassin; and others were unfamiliar to him.

"Ah, Lieutenant." Vetinari said, without turning. "I'm very glad you could make it here. Come and look at this and tell me what you see."

Holtack crossed the room. There was something in a slightly fogged glass jar. Inside… a magic circle? Electric blue light radiated up from its lines.

"Don't cross the circle!" Ponder Stibbons said, urgently.

Then Holtack realised what he was looking at. His mind boggled.

"You recognise this thing?" Vetinari said, insistently.

"Sir. Is somebody having a very tasteless joke here? I recognise it, but it's a stage property, surely, a dummy, that was used in a popular entertainment on my world"

"I do not follow you, lieutenant. That thing is very much alive. Merely frozen in time. Before magic placed it in a stasis field, it nearly killed its host, the Watch Igor. It nearly killed Officer Romanoff as she flew it across the city. She made contact with its mind and it declared an intent to reduce humanity to its slaves and food. It is highly dangerous. We require a way of neutralising it."Vetinari said, with some aspersion.

"Whet sort of popular entertainment do you _hev_ on your world?" Johanna asked.

"There was a film.." Holtack began. He stopped at the looks of polite incomprehension. "A moving picture?" _Ah. _

He wondered how to explain the film _**Alien **_to these people. At least they knew the concept of films. He decided to approach things from an easier angle.

"Ponder. In the coach coming here I had an idea. Can I explain it to you, and you can tell me if it's stupid or not? Thank you."

He briefly explained his insight – that as myths and legends transmit and spread, they gain force and belief . On Earth they largely remain legends, but somehow on a planet guided by magic, they become tangibly real. What if the leakage of energy from Roundworld had transmitted an imaginative concept with the force of a myth, made real in the minds of millions through a cultural medium, and a receptive mind here had latched on it and made it real?

"It could work." Ponder said, rubbing his chin furiously. "The Hive was dormant until a few days before the Breakthrough. We know other things periodically leak over. And this idea of the Queen had to come from somewhere for the Hive to latch onto.

And you say this was a _moving picture_ on your world?"

"It was." Holtack said, decisively. "Can your HEX retrieve the film and play it back?"

"I'm unhappy about this" Vetinari declared. "I made my views on moving pictures very firmly known at the time."

"Sir, can you relax your decree for a special showing?" Holtack asked. "I have a feeling it would explain many things."

"The High Energy MagicBuilding at the university is shielded." Ponder said, backing him up. "It was proven that the Umnian Golems are of the same type as Oswald, the Keeper of the Paramount. If a squad of them are on attendance to deal with incursions, sir, I believe this may be done safely, with strong magical and mundane defences. Besides, HEX has strong anti-viral protection these days and can eliminate hostile programming such as Dungeon Dimension incursions."

Vetinari sighed.

"Very well, then. Against my better judgement, I will sanction _one_ matinee performance of the Roundworld Clicks, under protection. Let us have an afternoon at the Moving Pictures. I trust it will be a good performance."

"**_Alien_** brought the house down everywhere it was shown, sir" Holtack assured him.

"Let us hope it does not bring _our_ house down, Lieutenant."

* * *

**(1) **See my story _**Whys and Weres, **_in which were-leopards from Howondaland plague the City. One hid in the Zoo to escape detection (and have a few free lunches).

**(2) **Or he might have got onto considering _vampires_…

**(3) **See my story _**Nature Studies**_.


	46. At The Movies

_**Slipping Between Worlds – 46**_

_Wednesday morning, Ankh-Morpork. Hide Park._

Fusilier "Head-Butt" Powell surveyed the expanse of overgrown and unattended vegetation in front of him, which seemed from where he was standing to be Cardiff Arms Park-sized. He and J.J. Williams had received the seemingly light sentence from Patrician Vetinari of community service, selflessly offering their time in lieu of offence caused to perform work of equivalent value to the City.

They had been issued what had been described as Watch fatigue clothing, but which Powell suspected were prison uniforms, and escorted to the Park by the genial Captain Carrot. On the way, he had reminded them they were still under probation, and that if Mr Flowerdew was wise, he would assign them a job and leave them to get on with it at their own pace and not try to make it any more unpleasant than it had to be. At least it's only for two working days, and then you are free men again. Powell, used to reading officers for what was being left unsaid or merely hinted at, had divined that the muscular redhead, who over-topped him by a good nine inches in height, was adding a subtext that said _I'm afraid Mr Flowerdew will _**not**_ be wise and will seek to rub it in and be a bastard. Whatever you do, put up with it, and do not make a difficult situation worse by punching him, whatever the provocation._

"I'm sure you both have experience of digging." Carrot had said, before handing them over to the park-keepers. "You're soldiers, after all."

He had then had a brief word with the underkeepers, wished them a good day, and moved on. Powell nodded in acknowledgement, recognising a good officer, and noting he and Williams were being left unescorted by guarding Watchmen.

_Well, they have given us accommodation at the police barracks which is better than a cell. Sergeant Williams was left in charge of us, and we had a chance to talk to Boer and Boy Hughes about our experiences here. Compared to the Shirt Factory, the bedspace is luxury, there was hot water to wash in, we get rations and our laundry done and the local Hedd are finding us clothes to wear which means we fit in around here. No point in running, really, and Mr Carrot knows that. _

He realised he was even according the Watch captain the respect of a "mister", even in his own head, something Powell was generally not inclined to do for his officers unless he had accepted them. And that after half a day of knowing the man.

_Maybe I will end up as a Hedd myself. What a joke, me a policeman! But the big copper, Commander Vimes, and the way he stares you in the eye is scary, he said to me he likes his coppers to be part-villain themselves so they know the criminal mind. And he thought I was potentially good material. Well, it's a job, mun, and I will need beer tokens, or whatever passes for them here. Mr Holtack, when he came to check up on us last night, he said he is going to try to get a few things off the ground so he can carry on paying us. I do not know how he is going to manage that, although Mr Holtack is a fly man. He did hint it might be a month or two in arrears, though, so anything I can earn in the meantime…_

Powell leant on his spade and gloomily surveyed the expanse of open ground and vegetation that fussy little shit of a parkie had said he wanted them to clear. The open ground was not a problem, just break up the turf to get to the soil underneath and then turn it over. But those old bushes would have _roots_, and that was work with a pickaxe and mattock..

"Well, here's a penny." Williams said, picking a long-lost coin up. "So we are ahead on the day already!"

A penny in this place, Williams had divined, had the buying power of maybe fifty pence at home. A dollar was the equivalent of perhaps thirty or forty pounds. And in some circumstance the exchange rate was better: a packet of cigarettes here was not taxed as swingeingly as back home. Ten pence would buy you twenty; a pack of twenty was nearly two pounds back in Wales**(1)**. A while had been spent the previous night talking to some of the coppers about such things. An average wage of three or four dollars a week had seemed pitiful at first: then by dint of comparison, the Welsh soldiers had realised this bought you as much as a hundred quid did on Earth, maybe more. It was the opposite of going to Spain on holiday, where a pound bought a thousand pesetas and you had the illusion of riches until you saw the price tickets on things. Here, the exchange rate gave the false illusion of poverty until you looked closely at things. It made your head spin, it did, thinking about the true nature of money…

"_Pull your bloody fingers out! I'n not paying you to lean on your spades all bloody day!"_

It was Flowerdew, the officious parkie. He was ostentatiously wearing a large white bandage around his head, and giving the impression of being brave and tough in having come to work despite a near-fatal injury. Even though the amused Watchmen had had a whip-round to get them the tea, sugar and milk Vetinari had ordered them to compensate him with, and Mr Holtack had chipped in half a dollar, Flowerdew was not moved to be magnanimous and was popping up every so often to yell at them for being lazy and idle. The rest of the time the effort of coming to work appeared to be too much and he was retiring to his hut, the one the two Fusiliers had recently violated.

"You is not paying us, boyo!" Powell muttered, setting to with his spade with _just_ the right degree of speed for it to be viewed as dumb insubordination. "You got us for nothing!"

In fact, two men used to digging trenches, fox-holes and field latrines (Powell often found himself on fatigue parties on field exercises) had cleared a large amount of ground already, after two hours' work. Possibly due to the intervention of Captain Carrot, a genial underkeeper had been placed in supervision of them, to put a barrier between them and Flowerdew. Dan Jones was Welsh, well, Llamedosian, and in his fifties still had "ex-corporal" written all over him. The sort of ex-soldier the two men could get on with, Assistant Park-Keeper Jones had pitched in to dig with them, and was cheerfully pontificating on the irony of an ex-soldier still bloody well digging great big holes in things even after leaving the Army.

"We will get on to those roots later, boys." Jones said. "It might help to think of Mr Flowerdew when you is smiting them with the mattock."

Powell grinned. It wasn't too bad, and here was an old sweat they could pump for more information about this strange town and how to live in it.

"The coppers at the barracks think it is a huge joke about Mr Holtack." Williams said, reflectively. "Apparently he does not know what they know about Constable Sally. Yet."

Powell grinned.

"Well, we met Reg Shoe the other night." he said. "So we know something about the Undead. Zombies and ghouls live here. They exist, Williams boy. And by all accounts so do vampires."

"Think she will let him live?" asked Williams, doubtfully.

"This vampire thing is a lot to get your head around."

Dan Jones grinned. "She will be a Ribboner." he assured them. "He will be in no great danger. Not unless she relapses. But only a Rupert could walk into a situation like that!"

Williams nodded. He vaguely remembered a sniggering Watchman telling them about Black Ribbon vampires, who got their blood in a non-lethal manner, _haemoglobin without cruelty. _

"We will see how he is tomorrow." Powell said, shrugging.

"_Get a bloody shift on! I want that ground cleared by this time tomorrow!"_

"Wish somebody would bite _his_ neck!" grumbled Powell, darkly.

* * *

_Wednesday morning, The High Energy Magic Building, Unseen University. _

Philip Holtack took a slightly disbelieving look around him at the sheer size and scale of the HEX system banked up to the very rafters on two sides of what looked, and felt, like an old indoor sports court. It even had faded white lines on the smooth wooden flooring which vaguely suggested squash, or a local version, had once been played here.

He had seen photographs of the first working computer, that had taken up five or six floors of a large building at Manchester University in the 1940's. The British Army was staring to use computers now, with some fanfare: the pen-pusher desk-bound departments had taken delivery of the first word processors which were expected to make the old standard electric typewriters obsolete by 1990. Alice Band had been sent on a conversion course and had come back a week later with her lips pursed to the point of invisibility.

"If we've got to have them, then we've got to have them." she had said, curtly, settling down to her trusty electric typewriter in a very pointed way. "But I'll tell you this for nothing, these machines do _not_ go down in flames if you so much as sneeze at them and then lose everything you have been typing for the previous hour. And those wretched bloody discs you have to insert that are the size of records on a jukebox. Totally unreliable. Leave it near a radiator or vaguely wave it in the direction of electricity, and it wipes _everything_!"

Alice had sounded like a long-time devotee of the bolt-action rifle who has seen SLR's for the first time. ( _"Say what you like, they'll never be as good as Lee-Enfields" he had heard an old armourer say_). And then there were all the horror stories about the intractable problems with the new generation of weapons that were being designed to replace the SLR's…

"Storage devices that look like jukebox records in a cardboard sleeve?" queried the Colonel. "According to my daughter, they're doing away with _those_ soon and replacing them with some sort of computer discs. God knows how they'll work!"

Holtack mentioned he'd heard the Royal Artillery were using computers to take all the cumbersome work out of calculating ranges and trajectories, which seemed logical. After all, they were just counting machines that reduced everything to numbers, which was ninety per cent of an Artillery officer's job. Same with the Royal Air Force, apparently – onboard computerised bomb sights. Holtack had seen the sort of calculations Artillery officers had to do. As he'd never been brilliant at maths, he had then definitively ruled out a career with the guns, having been shown what one botched bit of maths could do if the person with numerical dyslexia happened to be directing an artillery barrage.

The Colonel considered this. "Makes sense, I suppose. But even with computers to guide their aim the American Air Force will _still_ bomb the wrong targets. You expect that to be built into their programming, or something .After all, even without computers, they still managed to miss Vietnam completely, and bomb the countries next door, that they weren't actually at war with."

"And replacing Artillery officers with computers might not be a bad idea, at that." agreed Major Wynne-Parry-Jones. "Let's hope it doesn't spread, though!"

Holtack shook his head. He looked around him. It all seemed a bit Heath-Robinson, though. A vague memory struck him of the Babbage Engine, effectively a computer designed in the pre-industrial age to work without electricity. The mainframe of HEX had something of that sort of feel, a computer built by people who lacked electricity and had still made it work. He'd seen it work. But… ants in tubes? A ram's skull? An hourglass on a spring? And was that a teddy bear over there, by the big red switch?

_Magic works here, _he reminded himself_. That somehow takes the place of electricity. Remember the magic carpet ride? _

A large white screen had been set up at one end of the room. It was flanked by two of the stone-people, the golems. But where other golems he had seen had been at most roughly humanoid, these were better defined, better shaped, better sculpted, better in every seeming respect, inlaid with blue and gold. Others of the same type were in the background, and wizards were fussing around making final arrangements.

Perhaps forty chairs had been laid out in front of the screen in a rough semi-circle. Holtack had arrived with Sam Vimes and a man introduced as Inspector Loudweather, who he deduced was some sort of detective. Loudweather had arrived with a sergeant, who appeared to be an old friend of the boffin Ponder Stibbons. In fact, Ponder was excitedly showing his friend round, in between bouts of directing the other wizards.

Unheeded, Holtack drifted over to take a closer look. As he approached, a buzzing noise grew louder, as if of some unknown power source. He was also aware of a draught of cool air, as if a fan had been switched on to cool parts of the mechanism prone to overheating. And then he leapt back suddenly as thirty or forty very large bees flew at him, divebombing at this eyes as if to force him to keep his distance.

A wizard pulled at his sleeve and steered him away. Holtack noticed that the wizard was wearing the usual ornate robes, but also thick gauntlets, and a beekeeper's veil was hanging, draped from the brim of his pointy hat.

"Best not to disturb the drones, sir." he said, apologetically. "They guard the hive against intrusion from viral infections, like wasps and epithetical insects."

Not needing to be prompted further, he retreated to a safe distance. The open space was filling up now as more and more of the invited dignitaries arrived: Assassin black and gaudy wizard robes appeared to proliferate. Holtack walked over to the Assassin group and diffidently asked if he was intruding. Lord Downey graciously said "Not at all, Lieutenant. In fact, you'll be sitting with us so you can explain what we are about to see."

"The Moving Pictures happened before my time here." a familiar yet strange voice said. "I did hear about them afterwards, though."

Holtack looked round and slightly up into the face of Alice Band. She smiled slightly, but he got the impression she was a little more favourably disposed to him than her Roundworld alter ego.

She took his hand. Hers was warm and feminine, but, he noted, had callouses like a labourer's on fingers and palms. He looked down at the sword on her waist and made a connection: the French woman had had the same sort of thickened skin-pads on her sword-hand, too. _Continual practice, _he thought.

"You know some of us here. You've met me. Lord Downey. Johanna. Emmanuelle, you met the other morning. Let's see… Joan? This is our visitor, Lieutenant Holtack."

Holtack instinctively know this was a woman not to offend. She combined qualities of his school matron, the formidable Nurse Clempstock, with Miss Edwards, who had been the second teacher up at primary school, the one tasked with breaking them in properly after the semi-nursery atmosphere of Reception Class. Above all there was Granny Hughes, the most formidable matriarch of his mother's side of the family, a stern Chapel-going woman of a previous age who sat in the front row pew on a Sunday morning, daring the minister to say anything permissive or liberal that she did not personally approve of.

"Ma'am." Holtack said, taking her hand, aware of eyes like twin diamond drills. This one did not, he noted, have callouses betokening years of sword-practice. Her hand was completely smooth and feminine. He noted she was also an Assassin. _So if not swords, what weapon did she use…. _The possibilities were not encouraging ones. _If she offers to pour you a drink, switch the glasses? _

"So you're the young chap who's been causing the City so much bother!" the woman said, in cut-glass tones. She held his gaze; he felt his eyes beginning to water.

"Without meaning to, I'm sure. Joan Sanderson-Reeves, by the way. I lecture young students in Domestic Science, deportment and elocution."

"Domestic science?" Holtack repeated. It sounded a bit, well, _homely_ for Assassins.

"Not the way Joan teaches it." Alice assured him. Joan smiled.

"I firmly believe _all_ young gels should know the basics of good cooking." she said. "And these days, the odd young boy. I don't discriminate and if a lad wants to know how to cook and isn't in my classes just to get close to the gels, I'll teach him. Gladly, as the more men who can shift for themselves in a kitchen, the better! Do you cook, lieutenant?"

Holtack paused a moment. He knew his way around the inside of a field ration pack, certainly. And before that, his mother and sister had shown him a few little things…

"Some Italian dishes, certainly." He said. He noted the polite blank stares.

"Er… pasta. Bolognese. Canneloni. _Fusilli alla pomodoro_.."

"Ah. _Brindisian_!" Joan said, with approval.

_There's another one, Phil. Italian here is "Brindisian". Isn't there a town near Naples called Brindisi? Easy to remember…_

She gave him another approving nod.

"We could make something of you, then. You just need lessons in wearing that sword, as you look as if you're going to trip up over it with every other step. Educated young man with a lot of practical skills. Jolly good!"

"These _moving pictures_, Lieutenant." Downey prompted him. "I was present the last, and so far the only, time they were shown in this City. It was not a pleasant experience, as Sergeant Tugelbend of the Watch over there might tell you. I understand they are an established feature of your world?"

Holtack nodded. Ponder Stibbons had interrogated him at length about the movies at home and how they worked, and he had gathered that the Discworld equivalent had precipitated some sort of magical catastrophe which Ponder's friend Victor Tugelbend had ended up fighting off.**(2)** Apparently some sort of magical overload, combined with an audience shedding its critical function and absolutely believing, had allowed a primal evil a route into the world through a weak point in reality. Which, as Ponder had pointed out, supported Holtack's insight that a similar weak spot in the wall of reality had allowed the _idea_ of the Queen to pass from Roundworld imagination into Discworld reality.

"There's a lot at stake here, Philip. I really don't want to let the Dungeon Dimensions in again. Some of those entities play a clever long-term strategy, and it's possible to believe they seeded the idea of the Queen on your world in the hope it leaked back to ours. I mean, you have an author called H.P. Lovecraft, yes? Some of the creatures and locations he described apparently came to him in dreams, and to our eyes, he _must_ have contacted the Dungeon Dimensions!"

"What, shoggoths, Great Cthulu, and all that?" Holtack had said, disbelievingly. Stibbons had held a warning finger to his lips and his red-haired girlfriend had glared at him. Other Wizards present had winced, and one with an Australian accent had said "Bloody hell, mate!"

"_Don't name them!" _Ponder had warned. "They're _real _here!"

Filled in and briefed, reluctantly accepting that Lovecraft's nightmares also had a tangible place here, Holtack had accepted that it might not be wise to unleash a magical terror on the Discworld that had only been contained before with great destruction and panic. Ponder had outlined a strategy for containing it this time around, as he was confident that HEX could screen a Roundworld movie that was not initially fuelled by magic. He had explained the Umnian golems and their purpose – to protect and defend the city – and Holtack had been reassured that any multi-tentacled monstrosities would soon become so much _calamari _in their presence.

"Besides, Philip, my guess is that you wouldn't be affected by the magic as this is a part of your world's culture and you've been exposed to it all your life. You've built up an immunity. I don't think anything will go wrong, but if it does, remember _fire kills these creatures. _And you can wake other people up – you'll be sitting with the Assassins, and they're trained to see things as they really are and to resist, up to a point, magical glamour."

"Do you want my lads on standby with the SLR's?" Holtack had offered. "Between us we've got three hundred rounds, and that weight of firepower should stop anything."

Ponder had winced.

"Vetinari would never allow that. He's unbent a lot to allow this. And besides, this is _my_ High Energy Magic building, and I was there to see what _one_ round could do the other day!"

No, this was going to be a calculated risk. The Patrician had sanctioned the risk in return for the potential of learning more about the Queen, a creature of Roundworld imagining that had suddenly taken on solid form in a world that ran on magic, which was a… form of guided imagination used to call things or events into existence?

Ah well… he quickly gave Downey and the Assassins a digest of his discussion with Ponder Stibbons, and Downey nodded.

"Miss Smith-Rhodes has already briefed me. But hearing your report helps to reassure me, lieutenant. Thank you."

They turned to notice the Patrician had arrived, quietly and unheralded. Vetinari nodded at Lord Downey.

"This, I suspect, will be an interesting and enlightening experience." he said.

"My lord, do you think it wise that so many civic dignitaries are present here?" Downey inquired. "In the event of unforeseen problems?"

Vetinari shrugged.

"Drumknott is in routine control at the Palace." he said. "He knows my will and administers City affairs accordingly if I am detained elsewhere. I wish Commander Vimes to be present so he is fully briefed on what we are dealing with. Captain Carrot and Sergeant Angua are both able subordinates in his absence. I know Miss Sanderson-Reeves could not be persuaded to stay elsewhere…"

"I wouldn't miss this for the _world,_ my lord!"

"…but she has had direct dealings with the creature and should be present among our number today. I am sure Mr Mericet will ably attend to any pressing Guild business while you are both here. All we need now are Arch-chancellor Ridcully and the university Faculty…"

As if on cue, there was the unmistakeable noise of a lot of senior wizards arriving together. Holtack noticed some of the fattest, most gaudily-dressed and robed Wizards of all, were making their way in. To a wizard, each carried a very large container of what looked like…popcorn?

"And of course the Librarian is among their number, as a wizard who will not be affected by any glamour or enchantment." Vetinari added, smoothly. "Now if everyone takes his or her seat, I am sure we will soon be able to commence, with minimal delay. Professor Stibbons?"

And, with or without popcorn, everyone took their seat for a special performance of _**Alien… **_

The room darkened.

* * *

Francis Gerard McElvroy had been working on the construction site for three days. Paid by the day, he had passed over a proportion of his daily earnings to his landlady to assure his bed for the night. He had also been feeling more ill by the day. Wondering what had provoked a stomach bug, he took another swig of the brackish water, hoping an excess of liquid would flush it out.

His frequent visits to the privy had aroused comment from his workmates, but he was forcing himself to get through the work as well and quickly as he could. At least he'd solved the problem of where to stash the gun, the weapon that was worth more than gold on this strange world. It had occurred to him that this was a secret he could sell, and make money at. Surely somebody here had gunsmithing and metalworking talent and could fabricate a gun based on the principles of his rifle. Maybe a muzzle-loader or a flintlock, if replicating something like an Armalite was beyond their technology. He'd have to discreetly ask round. But he felt giddy and excited, as if he were sitting on a goldmine, but without a spade. _Ireland is free on this world. I can sell the secret. Never have to work again. If I can't get home I can settle down, a rich man. _

Set to building huge wooden formers, supporting structures the brickies and masons could use to build an arch around, he had reasoned the hollow interior of one could hide any amount of treasure and nobody would think to look. So he had concealed the gun and the ammo, in its bag, secured inside the upright of one of the formers, taking care to mark it so he alone knew where to look among six or seven identical wooden constructs.

No, he had no fear of the gun being discovered. But his stomach griped again, ten times harder than before, and agony twisted his bowels…

He distantly heard voices as he slipped away.

_Poor fella. He's new in town and nobody warned him about the water._

"_For sure. Water's powerful bad for you, taken neat. He'd be better off with beer! _

"_Get an ambulance. Get him to the Lady Sybil. Shame, really. He's a good worker. When he's in his right mind and cured, make sure he knows there's a job here for him to come back to!_

_Sure thing, boss!_

The waters of some rivers bring peace or forgetfulness, it is said. The waters of the Ankh bring amoebic dysentery, intestinal parasites of a dozen kinds, and a longish memorable stay in hospital. Gerard Francis McElvroy is lucky to have arrived in the city at a time when it has a good hospital skilled in management and treatment f these things, and this is where he will end up. But for now, he is in a world of pain and discomfort.

* * *

"I have asked Hex to implant a guarding spell." Ponder Stibbons said, smoothly. "It is at the moment passive, but should any of you completely forget who or what you are, it will activate to remind you and return you to our reality. You will be aware in the event of an insistent subliminal whisper telling you your own name and occupation. Hopefully it will not impede your appreciation of what you are about to see. Remember you are in no danger. Powerful magic is operating inside and outside this building to ward off incursion."

Ponder nodded at the assembled guests.

"I confess I don't fully understand the premise of what you are about to see. Which is why our guest, Lieutenant Philip Holtack, will now give you a brief resumé of the plot and setting of this film. Philip?"

Holtack, standing next to Stibbons, grinned and quickly summed up the setting and initial set-up of the film.

"Imagine a vessel, in deep space in between inhabited planets, carrying cargo. Unlike a voyage by sea, a journey might take years. The ship's crew are in deep sleep, sustained by machines, while a HEX-like machine on board the vessel deals with routine flight. Human intelligence is only needed for those parts of the journey that require human intervention, such as loading, take-off, and deceleration into the orbit of the destination planet…"

He looked around him to see if he had been understood. He was phrasing it as simply as he could.

"In the frozen airless cold of deep space, everything a ship needs to sustain life, right down to the air the crew breathes, has to be carried with it. The crew is in distant communication with other human settlements, but if anything goes wrong, they are beyond help and have to deal with it themselves. The crew are therefore the best, the hardiest, and the most self-reliant."

He heard a gloomy voice full of existential cynicism mutter

"Oh yes, just like _we_ were."

And

"Kindly shut up, Rincewind!"

_Rincewind's voice sounded like Marvin, the Paranoid Android…_

"I'm told two of the people here today were among the first to go into space from this world, and most importantly to return alive, so they will have more of an understanding than most."

He nodded to Leonard of Quirm, who was quivering with excitement. Holtack privately wondered how the Hell they'd managed a spacecraft.

"I will not dwell on the plot or content of the film… moving picture. Except to say it has lots of twists and turns."

Then devilment filled Holtack and he added

"Remember, In space, there is no air to carry sound. _In space, nobody can hear you scream_."

He thanked them, then resumed his seat. He noticed he was sitting in between Alice Band and the French assassin, Madame Deux-Épées. He wondered if this was deliberate. Alice was sitting with her arms tightly folded and her right leg crossed over her left, pointing away from him. He recognised the body language as being _While you are sitting closely next to me in a darkened theatre, do not even think it. _

He tried not to think it. He knew his own Alice Band. And besides, this one was Alice Band plus sword, dagger and no doubt other concealed armaments.

Madame Deux-Épées, on the other hand, had if anything edged closer to him, and welcomed him with a smile.

"We must start those sword-lessons soon, non? I cannot help but notice you are awkward with the weapon, _mon brave_. An adult who is virgin about swords will be an appealing challenge!"

And the film started… Holtack goggled as the homely messages rolled up on the HEX-fluenced screen.

_Warning: the copyright-owner has licenced this video, including its soundtrack, for home entertainment only…._

He scrolled down the list of prohibitions and places where it could not be screened, and wondered exactly where the HEX-computer had got this from. Was it just tapping into a video screening going on right now, somewhere on Earth, and relaying it? Holtack suddenly felt very lonely and homesick. Earth felt so close, so tangible, yet he couldn't touch it…

The French woman reached out and placed her hand on his, consolingly, as if she sensed his current mood. It was a nice human gesture, and he warmed to her.

And then the Twentieth Century Fox logo and ident music, and the opening titles scrolling across the screen, a planet looming into view, mustard-yellow, against a black ground, and then closing to a spaceship exterior. There were gasps from the audience, and the film started..

Holtack had seen it several times at the Shirt Factory – it was a Toms' favourite - and knew the plot reasonably well. Friends in Britain sent videos over, and the big film-distributors, as well as the TV stations, sometimes arranged free videos on the understanding that nobody tried copying them for illegal distribution. It was seen as good PR as well as a means of practically supporting the morale of British soldiers in the field. He recalled there had been a minor scandal when a Royal Signals unit with access to the right equipment had been traced back by investigators as the heart of an illegal video-pirating organisation; it had very nearly screwed up the grace and favour arrangement for a lot of people, as the distributors had got upset.

He wondered how they'd react if they realised how far one pirated video had actually _got,_ then grinned and enjoyed the show. The first twist passed. He noticed a nuance he hadn't seen before: how the music swelled into a theme suggestive of a stately sail-ship of old leaving a port with the wind billowing into its sails, as the Nostromo fired up to leave the planet. People around him seemed to get the deceptively serene and romantic sound-picture too – he recalled seeing a forest of sails and masts in the local docks, so they knew the vocabulary – and then there was the explosion of over-worked and knackered machinery on the flight-deck…

It got better after that.

The first discovery of alien intrusion provoked gasps. Holtack risked looking at Vetinari, who sat slightly more upright and attentive. He turned first to Vimes on his right, then to the interesting-looking individual on his left who had been assisted in with some difficulty, as if recovering from serious injury. This person looked like a teddy-boy who had been repeatedly hit on the head with a blunt instrument and then pushed face-first into a lawnmower as a courtesy detail. Holtack heard

_Yeth, my lord. That ith exactly what happened to me! _

From somewhere behind him there was a mutter of

_Ohshitohshitohshit…_

And

_Come on now, Mr Rincewind, you know Mr Ridcully wants you to sit through all of this! Can't disappoint Mr Ridcully, can we?_

The harmonics of the second voice said _ex-army corporal. Who is quietly enjoying the show and who has been given firm orders to escort and keep secure. _

No reaction from Holtack's left, apart from little shudders at the expected moments. _Same Alice Band, same iron self-control, then._

But Madame Deux-Épées leapt when the Thing clamped onto John Hurt's face and would not let go… reaction here was unrestrained, like any good cinema audience. Holtack felt Emmanuelle's hand grab his and hold on tightly. He did not object to this. He also knew the greatest shock of all was coming up soon – it had brought the house down at the Shirt Factory. Hell, not even the _actors_ had known, apart from Hurt, who had been briefed to keep it a surprise…. And then, just to keep the suspense up, there were a few moments of business with the ship's cat being mistaken for the alien… Emmanuelle's muted shrieks mirrored Sigourney Weaver's. Her fingers squeezed harder and he felt her nails. He placed his free hand on hers reassuringly.

"Merci." she said, with a quick smile.

_She's really getting into this, _he thought. _The ideal woman to take to the movies. _

He looked to his left. Alice was absorbed, and breathing quickly and regularly.

And, ah, here it came. He would be very interested to see how this audience reacted… he watched John Hurt load his plate, seemingly ravenous, as if he were eating for two.. and then the convulsions came… held down face-up over the table, first his white t-shirt (a nice touch) distended, then the first spots of red against a background of screaming, and then…

The room around him erupted into sobs, screams and audience noise.

"_Ma foi! Mes dieux!" _

Madame Deux-Épées lost her last shreds of self-control, raised herself vertically into the air, and came down practically on Holtack's lap. Instinctively, his arms went around her, and she closed both her hands over his. He could feel her panicked breathing as she stared, open-eyed, at what had just exploded out of John Hurt's guts. The director helpfully kept it in shot for an unwarrantably long length of time, before allowing the coiled bloody menace to hiss malevolence and scuttle away at speed.

Even Alice Band lost her self-composure. She grabbed hold of Holtack's arm with one hand, hard and tight,. He noticed her other hand had gone to her sword-hilt, though. He wondered if that was a learnt Asssassin reflex.

The noise died down to shocked silence.

Alice, clearly embarrassed, pointedly released Holtack's arm, glared at him, and resumed her seat. Emmanuelle stayed in his lap, relaxing against him. He noted how nice she smelt: perfume and clean clothing made a difference, even though there was an undertone of panic-sweat there that in itself was not unpleasant.

Others had noticed too. There was a snigger, and a well-bred woman's voice he recognised as Joan Sanderson-Reeves mildly said "Even when she's scared witless, she's a hussy."

He heard an odd conversation from up front near the Patrician

_That'th __**exactly**__ what it was like for me, thir!_

"_Except that you were rebuilt afterwards."_

Madame Deux-Épées smiled weakly at him from very near his face.

"Pleasant though this is, _mon ami_, I feel ready to resume my proper seat now."

"Si tu voudrais, madame." he replied, feeling that as she was sitting on his lap, he could safely move to an informal "tu".

She laughed, recognising the nuance, and squeezed his hand, slipping back over to his right.

In the background, the corporal-voice said

_I'm really sorry, sir. Mr Rincewind got away. He'll be moving too fast by now._

_Not to worry, Bledlow Nobbs. I saw one of the golems was briefed and gave it an iconograph…ah, good work, that golem! Just hold him where he can watch… thank you! _

The rest of the film passed by, Emmanuelle taking his hand again for when she needed it.

Towards the end, the other scene that had raised cheers in the Shirt Factory happened. With the rest of the Nostromo's crew dead or alien-bait, Ripley rescued the ship's cat and moved to the escape pod. As she undressed, Madame Deux-Épées looked to her left and grinned. Holtack followed her gaze. Was it imagination, or was Alice Band watching with more than normal concentration… _well, Sigourney Weaver is a good-looking woman… don't read too much into it, your Alice took good care __**not **__to look too hard, as you should recall. _

"I say" a voice said. One of the wizards? "Runes, try not to slaver, will you? Good grief, she's not taking _everything_ off, is she?"

Holtack gathered this sort of film had never been done on the Disc either.

But Runes, whoever he was, was going to be disappointed… down to knickers and vest, Ripley then froze and looked horrified as the final twist in the story happened. And slowly got into an all-covering spacesuit, to palpable male disappointment.**(3)**

And shortly after that, with the Alien Queen, fully grown, blasted into deep space via the rocket engine it was clinging to, the film ended, the credits rolled, and the lights went up.

++The management hopes you have enjoyed the performance++ the robotic voice of HEX said, smoothly.

++There is a sequel, Alien Two, which I can screen, if anyone so wishes++

As Alice Band glared at Holtack in a _Don't you dare breath a word of that to anyone, anywhere, ever_ sort of way that he knew so well, he heard the Patrician say

"There will be no need. I have decided. Destroy it."

And, as forty shaken people retuned to normality, the one and only Discworld screening of a Roundworld moving picture was over. And a decision had been made.

* * *

**(1) **This was 1985, remember.

**(2) **Refer to Terry Pratchett's _**Moving Pictures**_. I have hypothesised in other fanfiction that after a respectable period in exile touring the Discworld, Victor Tugelbend returned to Ankh-Morpork and took the only job available to an otherwise unemployable educated misfit – he joined the Watch and is now a detective-sergeant in the Cable Street Particulars. He is also the one and only Watch wizard.

**(3) **Of course, anyone really interested in film where a younger Sigourney Weaver gets the lot off should search out the film **_Half Moon Street_, **where she plays a struggling university student who takes a job as a "seamstress" (paid escort) to bring in the money she needs to pay for her education. This is also a moderately interesting thriller where she gets in way above her head in international espionage and assassination. And Michael Caine plays the male lead, although that isn't nearly as diverting as the scene where she's on the exercise bike.


	47. The teeth! The teeth!

_**Slipping Between Worlds – 47**_

_Wednesday evening, Ankh-Morpork. The High-Energy Magic Building._

The screening of _**Alien**_ was over. Those civic dignitaries who had seen the film had separated into several groups of rather shocked people, blinking back into reality after total immersion into the alternative reality of the Roundworld movies. Philip Holtack, a man who regularly surrendered to the alternative reality of a very good film, was used to spending a couple of moments re-adjusting to mundane reality as the film ended and the house-lights came back on. He appreciated that this world had had its flirtation with the movies, the _clicks_, as a sort of lantern-box projection which he gathered was technologically on a level with early black-and-white silent reels. But nothing of this level of technological competence – or length- had ever been seen on this planet before.

Even Lord Vetinari was silent, distant and faraway. Although he had recovered to expressly forbid any movement to watching the sequel, _**Alien 2. **_

Holtack found himself talking to the police sergeant, Victor Tugelbend, who he gathered had once been a movie actor. Holtack did not doubt this: Tugelbend was disgustingly good-looking, with the sort of face that combined the best of Clark Gable with a hint of Valentino. In 1930's Hollywood, the studios would have been fighting for him. Holtack, in fact, divined that Tugelbend had an affect on women, and indeed on some susceptible kinds of _men__**(1)**__._ If it wasn't for the fact that he was a painfully nice guy who seemed embarrassed by all the attention and who could happily have traded his looks for anonymity, Holtack might have felt an uncharacteristic jealousy.

"And _all _your films are like that?" Victor had inquired. "Not the horror and the gory bits, I mean. As _long_ as that, as _well-made_ as that, in full-colour. And that sound! And those effects! I was… out there in space with them, Lieutenant. I could see and hear and feel _everything_!"

"That's about the level my planet is at, yes." Holtack had agreed. "Maybe next time, a comedy or a drama, perhaps? I can see a lot of people were bit… overwhelmed."

Tugelbend shook his head.

"If only we'd been able to carry on…" he breathed. Just for a second, Holtack saw a star in each eye. A real, golden, glowing, five-pointed star that took the place of the pupil, floating up from the deeps like each of the twenty-three Paramount stars at the start of a movie…. He blinked and shook his head, but the stars were gone. Had he imagined it?

"Just a good job Ginger isn't here." Tugelbend said, mysteriously.

"I believe Lord Vetinari expressly refused admission to the Alchemists." said a familiar French voice. "Perhaps that was prudent."

Silently, Madame Deux-Épées was at his side again. He refused the temptation to jump. _She moves like a cat. Or a ghost. _

"Philip, _mon ami_." she said. "Do all Roundworld cultures have this… _cinema_?"

"Most assuredly, Madame." Holtack agreed. "I could see how absorbed you were in this story. I understand – Morporkian – is not your first language. Perhaps on a future occasion, I could introduce you to French cinema? The Roundworld nation of France has its own film industry, and I suspect you would find a lot in common with its films and they would not need too much translation for you. Perhaps a drama or a romantic comedy? I could suggest _La Lectrice__**(2)**_ or _La Dantellieuse__**(3)**__, _which are both absorbing pleasant movies without too much blood, or too many things erupting out of abdomens."

"The Reader and the Maker of Lace? Please explain, _mon ami_. But… no gore?"

"I remember the Lacemaker pricks her finger once or twice, Madame." Holtack said, cheerfully. She laughed.

_Careful, Phil. This lady is lethal in ways you can't imagine. And you're inviting her on a cinema date? _

Holtack quickly described the plots of both films.

"And people believe, when she advertises herself as a reader of books, that this is a euphemism for other services. And much humour ensues." Emmanuelle said, thoughtfully. "We have that here too, _mon ami_. Only you have to be careful if all you wish for is a woman to repair your clothing."

"Ah. The seamstress thing. This was very carefully explained to me." he said. She laughed.

"And in this city, _les putains_ merely repair torn clothing. _C'est la vie. _My Quirm is so much more honest about these things!"

"In that case, may I suggest _Belle du Jour?"__**(4)**_ Holtack inquired. "This film is about a woman who is married, comfortably well off, but feels her life requires excitement. She becomes an afternoon… _seamstress_, unknown to her husband, and lives a double life, until she is exposed by a jealous client who wants her for his own."

There was an amused slightly braying laugh from nearby.

"I say, Emmanuelle, that sounds _just_ your sort of clicks!"

Emmanuelle laughed, sounding as if she did not resent the implication.

"Joan, you should come too, as chaperone, so it is all above board!"

"As long as the damn clicks doesn't have blood spurting from every artery! That was _too_ dam' realistic for my liking! And I agree this young fellow needs protecting, so I'll _gladly_ bodyguard him for the day!"

"_Bien_! If Mr HEX can be persuaded, I would gladly learn more about France and its people. They sound strangely familiar to me!"

She smiled, reminded him not to forget about the swordsmanship lessons, and was gone again with the Assassin party.

Then he looked into the grave and unsmiling face of Sam Vimes' butler, Willikins.

"I had a little difficulty gaining admission, sir." the butler said, evenly. "But Her Ladyship wished me to remind you that you have a, ah, _social engagement_ tonight. She has organised fitting civilian clothing for you to wear."

Holtack remembered. _Sally Bowles. _He looked round to where Commander Vimes was completely poker-faced. Suspiciously so? And Lord Vetinari was watching. He smiled a thin smile and nodded.

"I do not need to detain you here any longer, Lieutenant." he said, gravely "Thank you for your contribution today. And I hope you have an evening where memorable and congenial company teaches you more about the way our City runs and organises itself. I would wish you to acquire such local knowledge swiftly and pleasantly. Enjoy your night off duty!"

Dismissed, Holtack allowed himself to be escorted out by Willikins. He sensed the butler had personal qualities of a discreet sort, possibly a military background. Willikins' manner evoked another sort of sergeant: the senior mess steward, responsible for managing the Officers' Mess, notionally a dogsbody chore placed in the hands of a newly arrived second-lieutenant, but who in practice used all the guile of his three stripes to rule the roost. Having once landed in one of the cushier numbers the British Army can provide, the Mess Sergeant will never leave it again, ever. As well as the considerable privileges involved in seeing his officers when they are drunk, arguing, speaking candidly, or otherwise off-guard in their own space, he is responsible for all lesser staff, cooks, waiters and barmen. He buys and stocks. He helps the callow twenty-year old subaltern landed with the task of Mess President work within the budget and get the accounts straight so that they may pass an audit. _Which is not the same thing as keeping totally honest accounts. All that is required is that they are passed as fit. _He hires in civilian staff, waitresses and others, as needed. He plans Open Nights, Regimental celebration dinners, and Ladies' Nights. A soldier-steward who incurs his displeasure may be posted out to a hard dirty job at second's notice, say overhauling tank tracks. And in extremis, it is his duty to ensure the soldiers under his command do not lose their fighting skills and can be rotated out in the field to combat duties. This is a key posting for an old, skilled, battlefield sergeant with the correct attitude, a reward for long service, and a sinecure allowing him to soldier on into his fifties. A Sergeant Willikins would be a bloody good fighting soldier with something more, something that allows the Colonel to turn a blind eye to a tacitly agreed amount of _wastage_ and _ullage._

No, Holtack would not attempt an escape.

Willikins escorted him to the waiting coach, and they travelled together back to the Manor.

"Your man, Matkin, will show you how to wear the new clothing, sir." Willikins said, smoothly. "Your escort, Miss von Humpedinck, will be here shortly."

"Just Sally? No Watch escort?" Holtack inquired.

"She is a very capable Watchwoman, sir." Willikins advised him. "She has… unique skills. And His Grace has advised her that if she loses track of you tonight, her life will be made a living Hell in lots of ingenious and clever ways. I do not doubt him. This way, sir."

Holtack was not surprised to discover a bath had been laid out for him. He gratefully succumbed to the benison of hot water, thinking that a daily bath over the past three days had done wonders to soak away the miasma of the Shirt Factory. He had never felt so _clean_…

And then dried, in socks and local underwear, the villainous and slightly grinning Matkin had taken him through the complexities of formal and semi-formal dress suitable for a young gentleman of his standing.

_Late 1890's? Early 1900's? The clothes have that sort of late-Victorian, early-Edwardian feel to them. But I have to admit they don't look bad… brand-new, too. Lady Sybil's bottomless purse again? _

"Oh, suits you, sir!" Matkin said, archly. "Oh, and before I forget, Her Ladyship said you should have a purse. You're taking a lady out, she said, and you should be able to pay your way!"

He handed over a leather pouch that jingled. Again, Holtack felt abashed at Sybil's kindness and generosity.

"She thought fifty dollars should do it, sir."

Holtack wondered how Matkin knew the amount so precisely, and a cynical thought made him wonder if the footman had skimmed off a little tip in advance. He recalled the _soldier-servant_ he was allocated for ceremonial duties, who had tried, unsuccessfully, for twice the going rate for a batman, taking advantage of his officer's painful new-ness to all this.

"No, not like that, sir. Let me show you. You ties the thongs to a belt-loop, see, and you slips it _inside_ your britches. Otherwise you is advertising to a Thief not only that you is carrying money, but where he needs to dip for it. Loads of Thieves in this town, sir!"

Holtack nodded. He'd met Mr Boggis and one or two Guild members.

"And you wears your sword, sir. Visible deterrent, see? Now if I shorten the carrying frogs so it hangs nearer your waist, you won't trip over it. And has anyone told you the old dodge about binding the grip in leather cord so it don't slip in your hand? Leave it to me, sir, there are loads of leather bootlaces here.."

When Matkin was finished, Holtack felt obliged to tip him.

"Thank you kindly, sir!"

Two dollars slipped out of sight.

"Now off you go, sir. You'll be meeting the lady downstairs. By the way, I slipped something in the inside jacket pocket, something for later, you never know…"

And the footman's face turned into a huge grinning wink.

Holtack decided to investigate the _something _later. Downstairs, he found Lady Sybil, who scrutinised him carefully, straightened his collar, called for a maid with a small brush, and then pronounced herself satisfied.

"You'll do, I think! That's the problem I get with Sam. People who usually wear uniforms to work are _hopeless_ with smart civilian clothes! Sally's here, by the way. She's just signing the standard legal disclaimer. Mr Honeyplace at Slants' knows the issues, and he drafted something watertight for King Verence of Lancre after he had a few bits of bother. Not that Sally's a bother _at all,_ but with Young Sam in the house you have to be sure. Oh, she's here now!"

Pushing the puzzlement aside at Sybil's apparent _non sequiteur, _he smiled at Sally. She was dressed soberly but stylishly, in a long dress where black predominated and some sort of bustier was laced up firmly in front. Discreet jewellery glittered.

"Hi, you!" she said, grinning. "You're looking _good_!"

He was sure he heard a murmur of "Good enough to eat" from somewhere. Sybil frowned, then smiled again.

"Off you both go, theres no curfew, you're both grown-ups, bring him back whenever you like, and remember what Sam told you!" she said, briskly. "There's a coach waiting outside to take you wherever you like. Have a lovely night!"

"I'm his Watch escort and it shouldn't need anyone else." she said, taking his arm. Again, Holtack felt that uncanny strength in such a petite frame. "Mr Vimes would stick a lemon in my mouth if I lost you."

"And that's bad?"

"Ever tried biting a lemon?" she asked. "Let's go! Dinner for two!"

She led him to the coach. Holtack noted the horses drew skittish at her approach and their ears flattened back in panic. Sally tutted, and said a word. Immediately, the horses became more docile, but still looked frightened.

Holtack knew enough to know how temperamental horses could be. It was a reason why he had avoided having ever anything to do with them. Still, as he got into the coach, he wondered if it was anything to do with him not being of this world. Sally smiled contentedly.

"Isn't this _nice_!" she said.

* * *

Denise Holtack had had a few awful days since hearing of her brother's death. She had spoken to her family, but it was in the numbing unbelieving speech-sapping aftermath of a tragic and violent death. What could you say?

The Army had been in touch to say a coffin would be released as soon as possible. Would you have the address of a family funeral directors we can release the mortal remains to?

Denise had choked back the word _sandbags_, and directed them to the firm who handled such affairs for the extended Holtack family. Alice Band was still with her. The Army had extended her leave, Colonel Otway-Williams suggesting it was better she remain on the mainland for now, where she would receive instructions directing her to the homes and funerals of the dead soldiers.

Alice and Denise had attended a formal Church of England service on the Sunday morning, officiated by the Right Reverend Band, Alice's father. The bishop had been sincerely moved on hearing of the deaths, and had asked if there was anything at all he could offer to assist. Privately, he had taken Denise aside and asked if there was anything _she_ could do to persuade his daughter not to work so hard, as it was showing in her face.

"She listens to me. I will try." Denise had said. The bishop had given her a long shrewd look.

"Yes, I rather imagine she does." he said. "But then, you're good for her. You remind her there is life outside the Army. Thank you."

Denise Holtack was left with a nagging feeling that she'd been _accepted _and that the Band household understood more about its daughter than her father was prepared to say in public.

Then in the evening, they attended Denise Holtack's church of preference. Alice had attended reluctantly, dressing for anonymity. The Christian Spiritualist Church was not by any means part of the mainstream. It could be an embarrassment to her father's hopes of advancing from a suffragan Bishop to a more exalted post if it were known his daughter attended a Church that was, er, _non-doctrinal_ and _outside the mainstream of accepted ecumenical thought. _The Anglican Church did not think in old-fashioned theological terms like _heresy _any more. In this accepting and inclusive modern age, this evoked unhelpful images of people being burnt at the stake or otherwise _comminated _(the Anglicans did not use outmoded words like "excommunicated" any more. It had outgrown the pyres of its origins, where the English and Roman Churches cheerfully and frequently lit fires underneath exponents of the incorrect form of religious expression. _Flaming _would not become an issue again until the rise of the Internet a decade or two later).

But the Christian Spiritualists, in cheerful spite of the old Biblical exhortations about allowing witches to live, or about the inadvisability of Kings of Israel consulting spiritualist mediums, had grown out of the table-turning and _is there anybody there? _séance-rooms of seventy or eighty years ago. It argued that evidence of survival beyond the grave did not diminish Christianity, it _enriched _it. Something that gave so much comfort to so many could not be Satanic, it must come ultimately from God. And did not Jesus himself provide proof of his survival beyond death by returning to inspire and bring good cheer to his disciples? Therefore the sensible thing was to bring the spiritist phenomena into the bosom of the Church and make it holy and Christian.

It was an improbable melange of Theosophy, some eastern beliefs out of Hinduism, Victorian-style mediumism and a gentle-easy-going, Christianity that preached forgiveness and inclusivity. Denise, a woman with a broad accommodating mind and a Celtic mysticism born on the Flintshire hills away from the anglicised coastal belt, where a residual people still spoke Welsh, so near the English border, had leapt in with both feet. Being gay was a small and a trivial thing here. Other Churches made such a _fuss_ about that.

Besides, she now had a very good reason to attend. The mediums were sincere and honest people who definitely were not in it for the money or the fame. She'd seen and heard things happen here that she could not explain nor rationalise way. And she'd had the awful, vivid, dreams in the nights after Phil's death…. She could not bring herself to realise this was the end.

Alice was more sceptical. But then, she was English. Some of Phil's squaddies instinctively appreciated these truths, even that ugly little villain Powell. _And he's dead too. He was as near to indestructible as I've ever seen. And while I only met Sergeant Williams two or three times, he was the sort of man out of the Western mountains who would have known, deep-down…._

No, she knew something of them all would have survived. It was a powerful belief in her. She impatiently waited for the hymn-singing, the sermon, and the prayers to end. She squeezed Alice's hand. The congregation here was a mixture of mainly older people, West Indians, Africans, Irish, Welsh…a microcosm of this part of London, perhaps, but all of them people who had left their old tribal churches looking for something else, an extra dimension of faith_. Or people like Alice, belonging to other faiths and not wanting to leave them, here anonymously looking for something else, not wanting their parish priest or minister or vicar to know they come here too. _

In the event, she was disappointed. It had got out that she had recently lost her brother in most tragic circumstances, and the presiding medium had looked at her a few times as if she'd been just about to say something, but she'd read a certain _doubt _and _confusion_ there…

_It's too soon, Denise. They say, and this is logical, that somebody who dies suddenly and violently undergoes a period of transition. They're eased over to the other side by Guides and made to understand they are physically dead. This takes time. They will come back when they are ready. _

"Is Alice here? This message is for Alice. I'm seeing a plump, jolly man. In a clerical collar. He's saying he had difficulties when he first passed over and discovered things weren't _quite_ the way his religion assure him they would be…"

There was a low laugh. Alice Band looked up, face suddenly very poker.

"Anyway, he asks if you remember the blue ribbons. And he says people are concerned for you, Alice. The reason why you're working yourself to an early grave, and he just doesn't want to see you again _too_ soon, have you thought it's because you're in the wrong job? You won't be in your current job for very long, Alice. You've discussed training to be a teacher, haven't you, with somebody who loves you, and you should do it. Your current job won't promote you, you know you've got as far as you ever will, and although you're good at it, you feel like the square peg in the round hole… remember blue ribbons on a sunny day, and become a teacher. Moving on…"

After sitting through random messages meant for other people, the service had ended. Coffee and tea were served in the small church hall, a space smelling of disinfectant and hope as such spaces inevitably do. The resident minister, a diminutive elderly northern Englishman in his seventies, and the officiating medium, moved among the congregants, and conversation was brisk and lively. Denise noted the medium, a mixed-race woman in her fifties who affected flamboyant African-styled dress, looked at her a few times, her face reflecting doubt and perplexity.

Alice said nothing, apart from frowning and raising an eyebrow. Denise, who knew her lover very well, recognised this said _just coincidence. But if it gives you consolation… _And then the medium had reached them. She looked Denise in the eye and her face was grave.

"I really don't know what to say." she said. "I was told before I arrived here that there'd be a young woman who'd lost her brother recently. Killed in action. And I read the papers. So there's nothing psychic about _that_."

She lowered her voice and engulfed Denise in a big accepting African-mother hug.

"I got messages, but nothing I could make sense of." she said. "Maybe it's just too _soon_. I looked at you and I heard a voice say _But they haven't found any bodies yet. _And a name. Bryn-ee-Bahl. And somebody, a woman, saying in a Welsh accent, _Phil's indestructible. _Was that his name? I mean. I'm not going to tell you he's still alive somewhere, that would be just _cruel._ There were plenty witnesses to your brother and the others being there one minute and gone the next. I guess what they meant was that something always lives on and you only really get to know that when you cross over yourself. Something about your brother, something about all of us, really _is_ indestructible. That's why we all come to places like this. If we didn't believe it, we would not be here."

Her face radiated love and compassion.

"Here's my card. Ring me. I don't charge."

It was too much for Denise. Her tears gushed in an explosion of snot and liquid. It was positively embarrassing…

* * *

"Of _course_ they haven't found any bodies!" Alice said, impatiently. "That explosion vaporised half a street and the fronts of the houses on either side! There's a crater two feet deep! Nothing could withstand that!"

"_Blue ribbons, _Alice?" Denise said, pointedly. Her lover had the grace to shift uncomfortably.

"A lucky guess, that's all. Every little girl gets birthday presents wrapped in ribbon."

"But isn't _pink_ the usual colour?" Denise pressed her. "And she was dead right about it coming from a fat, jolly, priest!"

"I'm a Bishop's daughter!" Alice said. "Three-quarters of the people my parents know are in the business! And "fat and jolly" applies to at least five vicars and priests who know my family well enough to give birthday presents!"

"Like your godfather." Denise said, thoughtfully. "Who passed over two years ago. Who knew blue was your favourite colour and you would not be seen dead in pink, even when you were seven."

Alice shrugged, but her eyes looked uncertain. Denise pressed her point.

"And I remember Phil climbing things and falling off things and getting bruises and cuts and scrapes. And our grandmother, who'd seen it all before, would pat my mother on the shoulder and say _Ach, Phil's indestructible."_

"OK, so explain that bit of Welsh the woman got, or claimed to get. Does it mean anything?"

"Usually, if you get a few words in a language you don't know and it makes sense to the sitter, that's pretty good evidence something strange is going on." Denise said, more confident now she was at least scratching Alice's scepticism. Deeply enough to leave marks, anyway.

"Oh, that's _easy_!" she said. "And you need to know Flintshire well, you do not just get these things by reading up a little bit before the sitting in the hope you can slip in a meaningful reference just to impress the sitter. _Bryn-y-Baal _is a placename, not too far away from home. It means _Devil's Hill. _Strange things are said to happen there at night and you try not to let yourself be caught alone there at night. In the old days, the old stories claim it was an elven mound, you know, one of those places where if the _tylwyth-teg__5__,_ the elves, lure you in and you eat and drink with them, at least a hundred years pass before you can get out again. That is, if you can get out at all. Some people claim the hill is a gateway between worlds, a place where people in the know can pass between worlds at will. These days, people see UFO's in the sky there. Perhaps the Elves have taken flying lessons to get up to speed with today's superstitions."

Alice considered this.

"You _do_ know you get more Welsh when you're fired up about something?" she said.

"And _you_ are too aggravatingly English, my dear." Denise said. "But perhaps working with Welsh people for so long has made you worth knowing."

They kissed. There have to be _some_ consolations on an otherwise bleak day.

"I wonder how Bryn-y-Baal fits in with Phil?" Alice mused.

Denise shrugged.

"One thing you learn is that you don't milk it." she said. "Even the best mediums I've seen tend to lose the plot if they push too hard for information. If you get too eager for information or hold the line for too long, you start to get static, like an old crackly phone line. It's probably not _that_ important, or just another little detail the departed spirit slips in to prove themselves. Verification, you know? When we go up there for the….." she couldn't bring herself to say the word _funeral_, not just yet – " I'll take you up there. But there's not really a lot to see."

Denise paused.

"I mean, even Dorothea admitted as such. She said the last whisper she got concerning Phil was something about _watch out for the teeth, _and she could not make head or tail of that one. _That_ was probably just junk information."

* * *

Phillip Holtack was enjoying his evening. Sally was engaging and pleasant company and he was completely at his ease with her. More, she was showing him her Ankh-Morpork, another rafter of priceless intelligence concerning this strange new town.

Walking the streets with her, they had been interrupted by three Thieves who had failed to listen to the breeze, the bad news having evidently passed by so fast it had failed to interact with them.

"Which of my badges do you want to see first, boys?" she had asked, pleasantly. Holtack had relaxed into a position allowing him to adopt a fighting style the British Army had refined with what it called _milling_ – tuition in using whatever worked for the moment in stand-up close combat. The sword he carried was just a distraction, and he wasn't even going to _think _of using it until he'd had lessons. But he sensed Sally had hidden depths.

She had stepped forward, smiled, and shown them her Watch badge first. That had far less effect than the twist of black ribbon she wore pinned to her bodice.

"We can relapse." she said, mysteriously. "Then we are love-bombed afterwards when we show remorse and repentance. Unconditional acceptance, you see. But it might not be too much consolation to _you,_ unfortunately."

The three thieves looked at each other, then fled.

"And my escort here is covered by the Platinum Deal, anyway!" she called, into the night.

"Sally." Holtack said, uncertainly. "The black ribbon?"

She smiled up at him, her face a picture of innocence.

"I belong to a mutual-help group, Phillip. Think of it for the moment as being a little bit like Alcoholics Anonymous."

"Oh". he said. They walked on, linking arms.

_I've got to tell him __**sometime,**_she thought. _But I keep bottling out. It's that men tend to react badly when they find out. It puts a real crimp in your social life. I wouldn't mind, but male vampires are so dull and predictable…_

They had dinner. It was a place chosen by Sally, the Crypt Taverna, that did a surprisingly limited but well-cooked bill of faire.

Sally had steak tartare, followed by a very rare steak, with a summer pudding oozing rich red berry juice for dessert. Holtack noticed the waitresses had the same sort of grave gothic appearance of those in the coffee-bar, what was it called now, of yes, _Necros._ The maitre d put him in mind of Christopher Lee, for some reason, but then he reasoned that all head waiters have a touch of Count Dracula about them if they stay in the job for long enough. And, to a Goth, they all wore the twist of black ribbon. He wondered, then shrugged and went back to addressing his mixed grill _a la martyre._ Sally poured herself another glass of something rich and red. He thought he recognised it.

"Bull's Blood?" he asked.

"Ye…es." Sally said, cautiously.

"On Earth, it's a very strong, rich, wine from Hungary." He said, wondering if there was a Discworld equivalent. "Transylvania, anyway."

Sally reflected on this.

"Sounds like Überwald to me. _Beyond the forest. _Same sort if wordplay. The deeper you get into Überwald, the more different languages are spoken. There are the Hubwards dialects" - she spoke a few phrases of what sounded like German – then the further Rimwards and widdershins you go, you get.." – now she sounded Hungarian, possibly Czech – "and in one district you get a survival of the _really_ old Latatian language." This sounded like Romanian.

"It's my native country and I'm fairly well travelled. I'm from a big _family_, so I'm fortunate enough to be fluent in them all. Even Far Überwaldean, which shades into Zlobenian."

This time she was Russian.

Holtack was entranced. He'd done basic conversational Russian at school and the Army had encouraged him to learn more. Hearing it from Sally had a bewitching and enchanting feeling to it.

The time came to pay up and leave. Holtack was aware he was attracting inscrutable looks from the waiting staff. He felt strangely exposed about the neck region, and was glad of his civilian wear incorporating a high-stocked collar. He was about to settle the bill and leave a tip, when Sally said "No, let me…" and their hands met over the bill. She smiled shyly up at him.

"Well, at least half!" she said.

"I'm independently wealthy, Phillip. My _family_ look after me and my Watch pay is just pocket-money."

And then she said

"Well, you can continue a perfect night by walking me home. I live over the river in Ankh, just off King's Way".

The walk was pleasant and protracted, taking in the Apothecary Gardens by night. There was one strange incident. They passed an all-night general stores that was still open for business – Holtack registered that it was run by brown-skinned people looking not entirely unlike Indian or Pakistanis. _They run the grocery trade here too? _

Sally suddenly said, as if to herself, _Damn it, I nearly forgot._

She asked him to wait a moment, she wouldn't be long. Holtack browsed the goods. _Wahoonies? _

She quickly returned holding a large brown paper bag.

"Finished! Let's get home!"

She didn't show him the contents. _Late night shopping, _he thought._ A working girl has to fit it in when she can. Denise would nip out to the local Asian store at all hours._

There were no attacks on them, and things were strangely quiet as they reached her front door. Much later, Holtack realised it hadn't even occurred to him to worry about getting a cab home. But he hadn't had much of a choice. He was intoxicated, he realised, and Sally was the drug. He wanted her.

Thus, he did not object to being dragged inside – her strength was still disconcerting, although he sensed she was restraining herself.

The rest of the night was as pleasant as anything Holtack had ever experienced, perhaps even more so. He learnt much, for one thing, about the practical intricacies of women's clothing on the Discworld, with special regard as to how it is removed at the end of a long day.

He was vaguely aware that Sally had left the bag of _somethings_ that she had bought at the grocery store within easy reach on her bedside table. This puzzled him. Things were going well enough in the usual, natural, run of things, not to need any props or artificial aids. Sally seemed to be enjoying herself, anyway.

And then, she reached out to the bag and brought out… a large black pudding? One of the sort that are in a U-shaped loop, like a horse's collar… Holtack had lived a fairly clean life in this respect, but a part of his mind was imagining possibilities. He could see where _one_ end of the sausage might go, _both_ ends if two ladies were to be involved, but here?

He was only partially relieved when Sally, her face a mask of concentration, slipped the thing around his bare neck as if it were a horse's collar and he the horse (_Ride 'em, cowgirl!) _and pulled him close down to her.

Then, in a scene he would recall in bad dreams, her mouth opened… and opened still further… and as she arrived at a very expressive sexual climax, the impossible teeth clamped down hard into the meat of the black pudding, painfully near to his neck, and with a noise that was part ecstatic moan and part long sucking sound, she drained the blood pudding dry… her arms and legs clamping tight around him were mere courtesy detail.

You're a vampire." he said, flatly, lighting one of his precious remaining Roundworld cigarettes.

Sally, human again, snuggled closely and simply said "yes".

Then, sensing this wasn't enough, she added "Let me explain more, Phillip. Especially about what it means to wear the black ribbon…"

He listened.

"And all those waitresses at Necros and the crypt…"

"Were real vampires, yes. But Ribboners, like me".

She flexed her body against his, deliciously.

"You were in no real danger, Phil. I like you too much for that. And Mr Vimes said he'd _personally_ hammer a lemon in my mouth if he had to report to Vetinari that I'd damaged you in any way. That kills a vampire on this world, by the way. Well, somebody puts something in your mouth, you have to suck it dry, right? Reflex."

Holtack considered this in the light of one thing they _had_ done. She chuckled and nudged him in the ribs.

"There's sucking and there's sucking, Phil! And I wouldn't damage any part of you. Certainly not _that_ one. But listen. When you discovered that packet of Sonkys your valet very thoughtfully put in your inside pocket for the night, and I hope you tipped him, I said we didn't need them. You looked surprised. The explanation is, there is _no_ embarrassing ailment a human has that could live in a vampire body. We don't catch human STD's. And I'd have sensed it on you if you had anything, anyway. Your germs don't communicate to us. And a vampire woman cannot get pregnant by a human. Our eggs are programmed to reject human sperm. It's not tough enough for our wombs or our eggs, you see. So we can go bareback all the time with human lovers and have no problems or consequences. Except for…"

And she indicated the black puddings. Holtack was surprised to see she'd bought six. One was now a deflated skin rattling with bone-dry sawdust and breadcrumbs.

"That's optimistic." he said. She grinned.

"Hey, you're a normal healthy male. You'll be up for another bout soon!"

Holtack looked doubtful.

"But the thing is… we're rational people. We realise to exist in a human world, we have to take the pledge and get our blood some other way. We have, of our own free will, renounced hunting and preying on humans. But there is one state, one condition, where a vampire woman will revert and bite. And while you might say it's bloody ungrateful, a vampire woman making love to a human man will lose it and bite – if the man is good enough in bed. That's why the blood pudding, Phillip. Sorry, but you make me come, I go for your neck. That's how it is."

She giggled.

"Knowing all that, do you still want to stick around for more?"

He looked down at her perfectly proportioned naked body. Hell, it had been exquisite. It had been exhilarating. She was a great girl to be with. And as Granny used to say, _we can't help how we're made…_

He kissed her, noting her teeth had retracted to human-like proportions and her canines were – and how had he missed that? – just pointed enough to be different.

"Well, we'd better not run out of black pudding, then." He decided.

"Perfect!" sighed Sally.

* * *

** (1)** The Ankh-Morpork Gay and Lesbian Watchmen's Association only has two members, but it doesn't prevent André Loudweather from being hopeful that one day, there'll be _more_…

**(2) **Miou-miou

**(3**) Miou-Miou AND Isabelle Huppert

**(4) **Catheine Deneuve

**(5) **In some stories, the little green folk have more in common with a Welsh version of the nac mac Feegle, and they will merely kick the shit out of you and leave you naked, robbed and bleeding on the road to Mynydd Isa.


	48. Alice through the looking-glass

_**Here it is... one of the ones you've been clamouring for. At last I've got my mojo back! I spent a day or two re-reading and evaluating "Slipping", if only to catch up with the story so far. Even though I picked up a depressingly large number of typos and a couple of scenes that need a slight rewrite for various reasons, my reaction was "My God, this is good!" - so I could not abandon it and leave it only two-thirds finished. I intended to cover a lot more ground than this in this chapter. But it got to almost 7,000 words, which in my opinion is long enough for one chapter. More will come, especially concerning Estrella Partleigh and Doreen Winkling taking on Seven Platoon! **_

_**Slipping between Worlds (48) – Sensitivity Training Class.**_

"_Kindly wake UP, Mr Holtack!" _the strident female voice demanded. Philip Holtack jerked his head up and shook himself awake. It was a chore to stay attentive in the hot stuffy room; part of him wondered if this was deliberate, as he remembered, several years ago in what was literally a different world, having to take his written aptitude and intelligence tests in just such an overheated airless room, at the end of a long day of physical training exercises, and a night before with not enough sleep. He suspected the British Army had deliberately done it that way, as an extra obstacle to overcome, and a method of weeding out borderline or weak candidates. Fighting the urge to rest his head on the desk just for a few seconds, Holtack had seen one of his fellow officer candidates give into it. Incredibly, the hapless soul had actually started snoring. The extra spur to stay awake had come from observing two of the Directing Staff march up to the snorer, gently wake him up, and tell him to fall out. That officer candidate had then disappeared, never to be seen again, and his bed space had been empty that night.

He heard what sounded like a Seven Platoon snigger - probably Fusilier Powell – and reflected that he wasn't setting a good example. Holtack pulled himself up straight and focused on the rickety uncomfortable wooden chair that was biting into the back of his thigh. Anything but let his attention drift.

Perhaps fifteen people, mainly male and human – he reflected you had to add that second filter in this place – were gathered in an upstairs meeting room above the Omnian chapel, or meeting-house, or Citadel, or whatever the Hell it was. All had transgressed what this country had in place of race relations laws. _More like species relations laws_, he thought, glumly. They had to submit to being re-educated - or in the case of the Welsh soldiers, simply educated - in what this place expected of them in terms of civics and being good citizens.

"Just look upon it like an Orientation." Holtack had advised his soldiers. "Only this time I'm not leading it."

"Oh, so we can fall asleep in the back row and just tune it out, sir?" young Hughes had asked. This had earned him a scarifying rebuke from Sergeant Williams, and Holtack had felt better about that. Having his platoon sergeant here was a definite Asset. Holtack had advised them to try to listen and to learn. Every bit of information about this city was valuable. Then he had yawned again. Even Sergeant Williams suppressed a grin.

"Short of sleep last night, sir?" Fusilier "Head-Butt" Powell had asked, with seeming innocence. The look of cherubic innocence would have fooled nobody.

"Be fair, Powell mun." Williams J.J. had counselled him. "Our officer was doing his field research about vampires, wasn't he? And you can only do that at nights with your lady vampire".

"No puncture marks in his neck, mind. He must have been doing something right."

"And she cannot have made him a vampire himself as he's here in daylight!"

Holtack winced. He had eventually woken up in his own bed at Ramkin Manor with no clear idea about how he'd got there. Although he had some remarkably clear memories, largely concerning teeth at first, although on getting past the impossible mouth and the very sharp teeth, some far nicer memories of the night with Sally had emerged. But he found himself lying fully-clothed, more or less, on the bed, feeling a breeze, smelling the distant tang of the River Ankh, and looking at a grey overcast sky through a wide-open window with the shutters thrown back. _Vampires can fly, can't they... and she was strong enough to carry me home. Wish I could remember that bit. _He carefully checked both sides of his neck for punctures. Nothing there, although he recalled Anne Rice; her fictional vampires had the power to close the wound after them, didn't they, leaving no trace and no apparent reason for sudden anaemia.

Willikins had knocked on the door to advise him the bath was run, sir, and breakfast will be at eight. "His Grace desires me to remind you of the mandatory training course in species awareness at the Omnian Legion of Salvation Citadel, which commences at nine.."

"Willikins?"

"Sir?"

"How did I get home last night?"

"I understand the Honourable Fraulein von Humperdinck was kind enough to return you, using resources of her own, sir." the butler said, smoothly. His eyes flickered to the open window. "Bath and breakfast await, sir."

There was even a Salvation Army on this planet, although belonging to an entirely different religion. As far as Holtack could make out, this was the modern-day survival of what had once been a horribly beweaponed Legion seeking to expound the gospel of the Great God Om by force. It had been forced to become somewhat less martial in order to survive a religious reformation, and now concentrated on band practice and leading hymn services.

"_Present... wait for it, wait for it! - tambourines!" _bellowed a voice that had Drill Sergeant written all over it. Forty or so tambourines rattled at the word of command. Sergeant Willliams smiled a benign smile as the sound of drilling Legionnaires on the parade-ground floated in.

"_For inspection, port... tambourines!" (another rattle) _**(1)**

"That reminds me, lovely boys. We still has weapons to clean. Commander Vimes is to make them available to us!" Sergeant Williams said, deftly changing the subject. The Fusiliers groaned.

The other people in the room watched the Fusiliers with some interest. A small troll, with some lichen crusted in its folds and creases, sat as far away as he could get from an axe-carrying Dwarf in full chainmail and helmet. Several recognisable humans of both sexes. And, hoving into view...

One was small and plump. Her plumpness was emphasised by serious corseting. In fact, as Fusilier Powell later put it, he'd taken her species to be a Quasimodo, like, only this one was a Hunch-front. She had jet-black hair, although grey was appearing at the roots. Her eye makeup was black and would have been more suited to a Gothic teenager, a state Holtack guessed she had last seen up to forty years beforehand. To all intents and purposes, she was a Vampire, but stand her next to Sally and the comparison would have been, well, grotesque. And something was wrong, something he couldn't quite work out...

The other was taller. Perhaps twenty years younger and angular – her body appeared to be made up of angles - she had a severe face and a strange hairstyle, where her dark hair had bean teased, forced or perhaps intimidated to the top of her head and secured with a scrunchie or other elastic band. Had it been longer, it would have classed as a Psyche knot; but the three or four inches of growth looked sadly shorn, like the top-knot of a disgraced Samurai, or perhaps the growth at the top of a pomegranate. Her clothes were equally strict and functional, a long plain sexless skirt with a bib-front over a baggy tunic-blouse. In contrast to the hunchfront, she revealed no cleavage and wore no makeup – the smaller woman was sporting enough for both. Her face was a perma-frowning scowl. Holtack frowned. Dennie had a name for women like that...

"Bloody hell." said a Welsh voice. "That's a Greenham Common stormtrooper if ever I saw one!"**(2)**

_Ah. That's what Dennie calls them too. Fortunately my sister had the common sense not to get involved. But that's not for lack of sympathy. She just believes beds and hotels were created for a reason and she's buggered if she's sleeping rough in a commune. She resolves any guilt feelings about letting down the sisterhood by bunging a tenner in the collection hat when it comes round to her. _

"Good mornink!" said the small fat dumpy one, with a smile. "Mein name ist the Countess Vinkling. As you may see from my mode of dress, I am a vampire."

"No kidding?" a Welsh voice breathed. They'd all seen or met Sally. The Countess Winkling just looked... as if somebody had hit Morticia Addams repeatedly with a large heavy object. There was no comparison. And she sounded like somebody putting on a very bad German accent.

"And I vill be leading this discussion group on behalf of Ankh-Morpork's many Undead citizens. I vill be seeking to correct some... _misperceptions_ you have expressed concerning we vampires unt other nosferatus."

"And I am Estrella Partleigh. That is,_ Ms _Estrella Partleigh, of the Campaign for Equal Heights..."

" The Campaign for Equal _what_?" said an incredulous Welsh voice. Ms Partleigh glared at the speaker. Holtack wondered if he should intervene, and thought better of it.

"Equal _Heights!_ Mr..." The officious-looking woman glanced down at the clipboard she was carrying. "Mr Powell."

She looked at Head-Butt Powell with the sort of look normally reserved for something distasteful on the pavement. Powell looked back at her with his most innocent and earnest face, the one that made officers dread and sergeants get suspicious.

"I – _We _– at the C.E.H. Are the advocates, speaking for and defending the rights of the Dwarf population of Ankh-Morpork and ensuring that ignorant bigotry and discrimination are eliminated! That Dwarfs may take no more and no less than their rightful place in our society!"

Powell looked back, nodding sagely.

"Aye, I can see that could be a problem." he said, nodding. "You don't want the little buggers getting ideas above their station, now."

"Getting in over their heads, like." J.J. Williams added, picking up the baton. He looked every bit as innocent and eager to please as Powell.

"Lying about their height, so as to get into the Army and stuff." added Boy Hughes.

Holtack smiled a little smile. He noted Ms Partleigh appeared fit to burst. But then, he was perfectly aware from past Orientations _exactly_ what Seven Platoon were capable of. They had not even _begun_ yet. And this time around he was in the audience, watching maestros at work. He could afford to sit back and watch...

* * *

Denise Holtack sat on the end of the bed and her shoulders slumped slightly. She and Alice Band had driven from London to North Wales for the grim duty of attending her brother's funeral. It had been a long, sad, largely silent drive. Denise felt a burden sinking onto her shoulders with every mile nearer to the border. Her brother was dead. Gone. She'd never see him again. Her parents..._ her parents. _She was now an only child. All the investment in her brother was gone now, not wasted, but gone, leaving a Phil-shaped space. The family expectations, for marriage and grandchildren, now all devolved on her. As well as the immediate need to support and console, her parents would expect Denise to make a good marriage and provide grandchildren., It was practically bloody _mandatory._

They had put off the awful moment by stopping for afternoon tea in Chester, finding a pleasant coffee-shop in the Backs, the late mediaeval shopping streets. They sat in the upstairs gallery, looking out over Frodsham Street and savouring the incongruity of modern shop-fronts in five hundred year old buildings, of modern people in 1985 in modern dress walking up and down the mediaeval street. Denise wondered if she were just finding reasons to keep putting off the awful moment when she returned to Wales. The border was only two miles away from here, England's last outpost, what had once been a garrison town against incursions from the terrible raiding Welsh. Denise sighed, and pillaged another cup of English coffee. _We're going to have to face it, sooner or later..._ _and how do I tell them about me and Alice? _

Alice Band had sipped her tea. She still looked as if the sky had fallen in on her, but she was quiet, calm, stern, at the need to face a very unpleasant duty. Denise envied her calm, but sensed what it must be costing her.

"I could settle down here." she said, speculatively.

Denise grimaced.

"Too near my parents, hun!" she said, with a slight shudder.

Alice gave her a long steady stare tinged with affection.

"They'll have to know about us sooner or later. Is it the grandchildren thing that's worrying you?"

"Phil's gone. There's only me now." Denise said, letting the hateful words form. Just for an instant, she had a sudden, clear, impression of her brother, walking through a similar archaic-looking shopping arcade. He was dressed in Edwardian clothing and was accompanied by a woman in black, petite, with short neat black hair. Denise blinked, and the image passed. She shook her head, putting it down to stress or fatigue, or possibly even...

"And I can't see where the grandchildren are going to come from." Denise added. "I mean, _turkey-basters_..." She shuddered in horror. Alice took her hand.

"We can always adopt. Or foster. That might reassure your parents?"

Denise smiled at her. Alice smiled back. Things might not be so bleak after all.

And now they were in what had been Denise's childhood bedroom. Oh, her parents had redecorated it since, and installed twin single beds, but her mother had asked them if they didn't mind sharing, as a lot of people will be here tomorrow for... and her mother had not been able to get any further.

Alice had comforted her. She had added a recollection of Phil and said something heartfelt about missing him. That was a nice touch.

And the next day, the Colonel and his wife would be here for the funeral, and Sergeant Greenberg would be coming up from Chepstow with a honour guard and firing party.

Denise sat on the end of the bed, emotionally spent. She was aware of Alice padding around in bare feet, towel-wrapped after taking a shower.

One of her uniforms was laid out on the other bed; she had only picked up a few changes of underwear from her family home. It was Army uniform or nothing. Alice got dressed, unhurriedly. Denise watched her lover, wondering how she had ever struck it so lucky. As Alice moved to the mirror to check herself, Denise moved in from behind to wrap her arms about her waist and nuzzle her neck.

* * *

Alice Band arranged for her morning lesson to be covered by a colleague. It was a fairly routine first-year class in Edificeering, anyway: any of a dozen other members of staff were qualified to cover it. After all the business at the weekend, that had raised more questions than it had answered, she had business at the University.

Hopefully it would answer _one_ of the questions it had raised for her. Maybe more.

She walked briskly along in the direction of the University. People stood aside for her: even though she carried no visibly apparent personal weaponry, the black clothing and the purple sash combined with a general sort of no-nonsense demeanour allowed her to walk unmolested on the streets of Ankh-Morpork.

Recognising her, the duty Bledlow at the University gate saluted and allowed her to pass. She walked on. Reflecting that here among all the robed and cowled Wizards and university students, an obvious Assassin stood out a mile, she tried to communicate the idea that she wasn't there to inhume anyone. She was here as a University guest, after all.

Security was tighter at the High Energy Magic Building. Here, the Bledlow politely asked for proof of identity and checked her against a list of affiliated researchers on the Roundworld project. Alice, understanding, patiently submitted. Finally she was allowed in to find Ponder Stibbons, who welcomed her warmly.

"We'll get this wrapped up quickly, Miss Band, as I'm required at the Zoo later today. I'm absolutely sure you have an identifiable double self on the Roundworld. This series of tests should confirm it beyond any doubt. As you can see..." Ponder reddened, remembering a time... "we have now got a dedicated Ladies Changing Room, which should save any embarrassment. If you'd care to go in, Hex will provide you with a _here-but-not-here _suit?"

Remembering the time she and Johanna had embarrassed a room full of Wizards by undressing in a public place, Alice smiled. She had learnt not to regard Wizards as desexualised men in dresses after that. Johanna should have known better, given her relationship with Ponder, but perhaps she just liked teasing Wizards.

Alice quickly undressed, knowing that Hex was only nominally a "he". She exchanged pleasantries with the thinking machine, accepted that she ought to leave her weapons behind as they would be of no use where she was going, and stood in the appointed place while a magical radiance, white and octarine, wove a closely-fitting bodysuit around her. It was sufficiently opaque to preserve modesty, but Ponder still winced: it was so skin-tight as to leave nothing to the imagination. And Alice Band was tall and lean with a very well-honed physique.

Ponder had cleared the HEM of all but essential personnel for this one, but there were still a suspiciously high count of Wizards and senior students who considered themselves essential.

"You are aware of the doppelganger theory, miss Band?" Ponder asked, politely. "Past experience with the Roundworld Project has taught us that it is highly probable that everyone on the Discworld – at least, every human – has a double, an alternate self, who has lived, is living, or who will live, on the Roundworld. We were initially alerted to this possibility by the experience of Professor Rincewind, when we discovered there was a long period of Roundworld time during which it was impossible to insert him into the Project. Experimentation and investigation revealed the existance of a Professor Rinjnswand on the Roundworld who not only looked identical to Rincewind but shared a lot of character traits with him. We discovered that the time period in which the Roundworld was closed to Rincewind was the exact duration of his double's life. And Rincewind was only the first. Since then we have discovered twenty-three others. You will be the twenty-fifth. Are you ready for the experiment, Miss Band?"

"Ready!" said Alice, and composed herself.

Hex, the starting point is the consensus date on Roundworld of August 30th, 1954. The place is Wimbledon, London, England. Go!"

Alice felt herself flickering in and out of existence in the HEM. She knew what it was: she had been instructed in the magical concept of _thlabber_, the existential uncertainty that happens whenever you are at the epicentre of a magical spell. In bad cases, it could lead to a sort of travel-sickness, but Alice prided herself on having a strong stomach.

She could hear Hex intoning the years:

+1955+1956+1957+1958+1959+...

HEX got as far as 1985, and paused. Alice felt herself coming to rest in the Discworld and not in a putative _somewhere else_.

"Is there as problem, Hex?" Ponder asked.

+In this year, an instability occurs.+ The Roundworld timeline branches off into at least three directions.+ A result of that nexus of instability, which occurred in the north of Ireland, is with us today.+ I believe this was the event that caused Philip Holtack and seven others to leave Roundworld and cross to here.+ As a result I cannot now give a precise year of demise for the Alice Geraldine Band of the Roundworld.+ Her birth year is 1954+ This remains constant and she is thirty-one years old in 1985. +Her year of demise is, variably, 2028, 2032, or 2036.+

Alice did some fast mental arithmetic.

"Which means my duplicate is seventy-four, seventy-eight or even eighty-two when she dies. That's heartening!"

+It would be over-confident to extrapolate from the lifespan of your duplicate, miss Band.+ Hex advised her. +You are, after all, in a very high-risk occupation.+

Alice winced: being accused of over-confidence, the prime Assassin failing, by a thinking engine... _ stung. _

Ponder shook his head.

"I'm satisfied Miss Band has a doppelganger on the Roundworld." he said. "Would you like to see her, even if you can't meet her?"

Alice nodded. She felt an uncharacteristic butterfly sensation in her stomach. Ponder gently took her arm and led her to a work-station. It was a small, self-contained study carrel with desk, chair, large mirror and an omniscope fragment angled so that it reflected into the mirror. Ponder closed the door behind them.

"Do you wish to be alone with Hex, Miss Band?" Ponder asked.

"No. Please stay." she said, knowing she could trust him. She had a feeling she would need him.

+Hello, Alice.+ said the voice of Hex. +I am now going to show you some of the key moments in the life of your double on the Roundworld.+ I will advise you that these will not incorporate any of her most private and personal moments. +What you will see is in the public domain, as it were.+ If you show signs of distress I will end the session. + You may pause at any time to ask questions. Shall we begin? +

Alice braced herself. The image in the mirror swirled and churned as Hex locked onto the correct timeline and personal history. Then the images started. She leapt, seeing a priest, in black shirtfront and white dog-collar, playing with a serious and intent little girl riding some sort of wheeled machine.

_But that isn't my father. Alice, this is not **your** dad. He's different. _

The family, her mother wearing some sort of light summer dress that exposed all her arms and left her legs bare below the knee. Her mother's hair done in a style that looked ridiculously over-fussy. The priest again. The little girl, still unsmiling and intense, but older and recognisably herself. Alice looked hard. The two people masquerading as her parents... no, the parents of this other Alice... had recognisable aspects of her own parents, but were different. And what on earth was that machine they were getting into, like a metal box on wheels, with seats inside... _Didn't Philip Holtack mention something like this on his world? Horseless carriages? _

The other Alice, older still, in a changed scene. Thirteen? Fourteen? In an indecently short white dress, legs bared well up the thigh. She was playing a game... it involved sending a ball back-and-forth across a central net standing about three feet high. Watching, Discworld Alice soon worked out the rules, if not the scoring system. You had to keep directing the ball over the net while keeping it inside the white lines. If you could not get to the ball to send it back, you lost points. If you hit the net or directed the ball to the wrong side of the lines, you lost points. It looked like good fun and Alice was appreciative of the way her Roundworld self was making easy meat of her opponent, a girl of about the same age who also wore an indecently short knicker-revealing skirt. It was high summer in the mirror, and something about the regular _poc-poc-poc_ of the ball shuttling back and forth, and a disembodied voice, presumably a referee, calling "Out!" at intervals, was oddly relaxing and somehow right.

"What is this game. Hex?" she asked, intrigued.

+Tennis, miss Band.+ It is very popular on the Roundworld.+ If you wish, I can furnish further information.+

Hex changed the scene again. Alice noted her opposite was now at boarding school. It had something in common with the Quirm College for Young Ladies, which Alice had attended. She squinted to make out the name on the school hoarding. _**St. Audrey's Preparatory and High School for Young Ladies of Good Family, **_she read. Apparently it was in a place called Taunton, Somerset, which meant nothing to Alice. **(3)**

+Taunton is rather like Quirmbridge or Hangnails in the Shires, Miss Band.+ Hex said, helpfully. Alice winced: bucolic, inbred and full of yokels. Ugggh.

She noticed her Roundworld self seemed miserable and tight-lipped, as if her schooldays very categorically were **not** the happiest days of her life and she could not wait for them to end. _You and me both, sister, _thought Alice. Further observation revealed something of why: the teenage Alice was ferociously intelligent, thought other people were idiots, thought most of her _teachers_ were idiots. She was outstanding at this tennis, which redeemed her in the eyes of her teachers. And her school believed in healthy outside exercise for its pupils, which meant Outward Bound courses in the hills. Again, Alice was appreciative of her double's mountaineering and abseiling ability. She also noted her double and her tentmate were very keen on buddying up together and sharing bodily warmth...

"Hey!" she protested, as Hex faded out the picture.

+I'm sorry, Miss Band.+ We were beginning to intrude on your double's personal privacy and on things which are not in the public domain.+

"But _still._.."

+Miss Band, how would you feel if an observer on another world were to eavesdrop on your most personal moments?+

"Ah." Ponder Stibbons said, embarrassedly. He was belatedly realising that some of the stories whispered about Alice might well be true and not just idle gossip. And hadn't Johanna hinted...

Alice smiled at him. "I trust you completely, Professor Stibbons. I remember that night in the blizzard."**(4)**

But then Hex changed the picture again. Alice Band joining the Army to prove herself. Her parents' disapproval of her career choice. Training at a place called Camberley with other women recruits. Put through Hell, or at least Purgatory, by the depot staff. Exerting her leadership abilities over some of the other women being trained. Discworld Alice remembered her own Assassin training, and shuddered as she watched something that looked infinitely more horrible and demeaning. _But if this is anything like the training Philip Holtack received, it's vital to keep a clear head so I can report back to the Guild. Is there anything here we can usefully apply to Assassin training? _

Alice shuddered through a sequence in which her Roundworld opposite had to crawl through very deep mud. _Maybe one of these "assault courses" would be fun. For us, if not for the pupils. _

And then she was sharing her opposite's fuming anger at being patronised by male instructors on a firearms course.

**Gonnes. **

"Am I allowed to witness this?" Alice asked.

+Strictly speaking, not.+ But this will be informative concerning your alternate's personality."+

Alice noted Hex skipped through the actual training, showing her only those moments where Alice and her co-trainees were being belittled and humiliated by a male training instructor who frequently expressed the opinion that women were incapable of shooting straight and were frightened by loud bangs. Good; Discworld Alice had intuited a couple of valid principles, but was still largely in the dark concerning gonnes. She really did not want the complication of knowing.

And then Roundworld Alice Band channelled her anger, and got near-perfect scores on both the SLR and the Browning pistol. She handed the empty pistol back to the sarcastic instructor with a glare and a nod. Discworld Alice Band pumped her fist and cheered.

And now it skipped through her passing-out, near but not quite with the Sword of Honour. Alice celebrated her passing out by booking into a discreet hotel with a fellow officer, called Caroline. Hex again cut the transmission just as, in Alice Band's opinion, it was getting to the _best_ bits.

_My first lover was called Caroline too..._

A posting to a gorgeous sunny island called Cyprus came next. Discworld Alice strongly suspected Roundworld Alice, in this gorgeously warm sunny paradise, had at least one other very discreet affair, conducted off-base with a woman who was not a fellow soldier. Discworld Alice felt glad for her alternate. She also felt slightly shocked by the minimal bathing costumes Roundworld women wore. _No wonder Philip Holtack knew about the birthmarks on my left thigh, _she thought.

And then she was posted back to Great Britain to take up an appointment with a Welsh regiment. Discworld Alice watched as Roundworld Alice learnt to deal with the many irritations of life, including Philip Holtack and his highly suspicious sense of humour. Discworld Alice also noted, with approval, that Roundworld Alice could out-shoot almost every male officer in the regiment. She had also picked up some unarmed combat skills; Alice watched her alternate practice her moves in a gymnasium, clad in a white pyjama-like gi, with a brown belt denoting her status.

And then Hex displayed images from the fated Mess Ladies' Night, where Roundworld Alice met the woman who would become her exclusive lover. Discworld Alice let out an involuntary "oh, wow!". The boyish-looking girl, the cute one with the short-cut black hair and the nice figure... _ow wow, I want to see her in leather! _Alice looked at Denise Holtack aznd completely approved of her alternate['s taste in girlfriends.

+We have almost reached the point in 1985 where the instability happened that brought our Visitors here.+ said Hex, breaking into her thoughts. +After this point, Alice Geraldine Band's timeline becomes indistinct and contains multiple possibilities.+ I can reveal that in the three most likely scenarios, she leaves the Army, retrains as a teacher, and enters the educational process.+ She also becomes a mother of children who are raised by herself and her lover.+

"How, exactly, Hex?" Alice asked. "If she is gay, like me..."

She suspected the thinking machine made a noncomittal shrug.

+Something called a turkey baster may be involved at some point.+ But in two of the timelines I can indistinctly see, it is possible they have a son who they choose to call Philip in memory of his uncle.+The identity of Philip's mother is unclear, however.+It could be either Alice or Denise+

"Moving swiftly along, Hex." Alice said, hurriedly. She hadn't liked the comment about turkey basters very much. And she wanted to put the slightly disgusting thought out of her active imagination.

+I can permit you to view one last scene in your alternate's life.+Insofar as time on the Roundworld is contingent with time here, I can show you the exact moment in her life corresponding to this moment on the Disc. +This is five days and eighteen hours on from the instability event which threw Pohilip Holtack and the others into our world.+ On Roundworld, they are presumed dead.+ Family and friends are gathering for the funeral which will take place in fifteen hours time.+ Your viewpoint will be through the mirror in Denise Holtack's bedroom.+ Observe now, in real time.+

Alice Band looked into the mirror. She saw a well-kept bedroom in an familiar sort of house, one which had oak beams spanning the ceiling. The absolutely gorgeous dark-haired girl was sitting on the end of a bed. Every so often, Alice Band – herself – walked into view, at first naked except for a towel, then walking out of view again, then re-appearing in the impossibly skimpy but incredibly attractive underwear women wore on the Roundworld. Alice coveted clothes like that. She could see, for goodness sake, how well they fitted and how good they looked. After all, it was Alice Band who was wearing them. She passed out of sight again. Presumably she was completing dressing.

Then Roundworld Alice came up to the mirror, frowning, to straighten her uniform tie. The deliciously dark Denise came up behind her to hug her and kiss her neck. And then...

* * *

Alice Band looked into the mirror and jumped. Denise felt her tenseness.

"What's wrong, hun?" she asked, snuggling her lover.

"Now I know I'm overworking." she said, faintly. "Dennie, what do you see?"

"Your reflection?.. _Oh, my God..."_

Denise was looking, for just long enough, at her lover Alice Band. But an Alice dressed in some sort of Edwardian widow's weeds, with a high-stocked collar trimmed in a little dark lace. The reflection of Alice was doing all it should do and moving with Alice and reflecting some of her consternation. It was just dressed differently, in a kind of Gothic style.

Denise blinked. Then when she opened her eyes again, the reflection was of a Captain in the British Army, wearing a khaki-green shirt and issue tie.

She and Alice looked at each other.

"I see myself like that in dreams sometimes." Alice said. "I get a recurring one where I'm running in the dark across the rooftops. It scared me to death, until I started to realise that the me in the dream seems to know exactly what she's doing. And the city's wrong. It's like London, but at the time of the Great Fire and the plague, you know?"

Dennie hugged her lover. Family lore said the house was haunted and odd things could happen. But still...

* * *

"Hex." said Alice Band. "She _saw_ me. How could that happen, if we aren't meant to meet?"

+She is under great psychic stress at the moment.+ Meetings of alternates happen when the walls between worlds are thinner because of psychic stress, worry, or instability.+ At these times, things slip between worlds.+ And I used mirror magic, so that you could see your alternate in real time. +I used this magic for expediency, and failed to take into account the witch-lore that warns that a mirror is a two-way device.+ You may yet see more of your alternate now the link is established, Miss Band. +And she may see more of you.+

"I'm an Assassin. I can't stay away from mirrors. They are _everywhere_ at the Guild!"

+May I stress that you are not physically meeting each other?+ The advantage of employing mirror-magic is that each of you remains firmly in her own world.+ The mirror opens up a window allowing you to observe each other and for the person observed, if she becomes aware, to observe back.+ As witches know, it helps if there is a connection.+ There was a case where a witch in Genua was able to covertly observe the doings of witches in the Ramtops, one of whom was her own sister.+ **(5)** I have simply adapted mirror technomancy to the Roundworld project.+ Thus no physical constraint was involved nor no law violated.+

Ponder Stibbons coughed, discreetly.

"Er... we both have an appointment at the Zoo, Miss Band. The Patrician has convened a meeting of minds to work out how to safely dispose of the Hive Queen. He wants Assassins there as well as Wizards."

Alice sighed.

"OK. Give me time to get back into my day clothes. I'm technically nude here." Ponder gulped and went slightly red. She smiled.

"Just so long as you're discreet about my being gay." she said. "Or Johanna and I might be forced, with great reluctance of course, to put a contract on you!"

A thought occurred to her.

"Would the Roundworld me have seen me naked? Not that it matters, she's me, but..."

+She would have seen you as you normally present yourself on the Disc, miss Band. + said Hex, helpfully.

Alice nodded. "This just wraps it up here, then. Thank you both for your help. And Ponder – I know you're a true friend. Maybe I should have said it to you before. But thank you!"

And elsewhere, the consciousness-raising session concerning dwarfs and vampires went on...

* * *

**1 **I know. Tim Brooke-Taylor devised foot and tambourine drill for the Sally Ann as an extended visual sketch on _**The Goodies. **_In which he played a fearsome Salvation Army Drill-Sergeant. Worth using, though.

**2** Some translation. For those not around in 1985, another issue revolved around American military bases in Britain where fully armed nuclear missiles were kept in an operative state. It was argued that the only country these actually defended was the USA, and the USA was effectively defending its own turf by firing the nukes form Europe, ensuring any retaliatory Russian strike would nuke us and leave America unscathed. USAF Greenham Common was therefore continually picketed by a "Women's Peace Camp" consisting of determined ladies of a certain feminist bent. They would follow and commentate on any mobile nuclear units leaving the camp to actively deploy in Britain and popularise their whereabouts, making a nonsense of any claim to stealth and secrecy. British policy was to get British police and Army units in between the demonstrating women and the Yanks and defend their right to protest whilst keeping them as far away from the Americans as possible. Putting at least two layers of British security in between the Yanks and the protesters also reduced thel ikelihood of some disgruntled trigger-happy American loosing rounds and killing a protester - bad press, for one thing, as well as giving the peace protesters a martyr. While never having been there during his service, your author heard from men who had ,and who described it as a massive fucking shambles and a bad-joke circus, with the armed American grunts protecting the missiles and missile base described as one step away from doing something ill-advised that would strain the Special Relationship. (Or, as a Tom put it, "_point that fucking rifle somewhere else, Yank, or I'm belting you one!")_

**3 **St Audrey's of Taunton really did exist. I met a couple of girls at uni who'd been there. To a woman they called it "Tawdry's". Apparently the school, set up to educate the daughters of service personnel, is no longer in existence.

**4** See my Hogswatch story _**Pere Porcher, **_ in which Ponder and the lady Assassins defend each other from trouble.

**5 **Refer to _**Witches Abroad** _by Terry Pratchett. in which mirror magic is used to cover distances asnd for covert surveillance.


	49. Species Awareness and Sensitivity

_**Here it is... one of the ones you've been clamouring for. It's not a complete acount of the Sensitivity Training session, which when I applied myself to it turned out to be comedy gold. But it's so long it's easier to split it in two and call a break after 5,000+ words. The rest will follow! **_

_**Slipping between Worlds (49) – Sensitivity Training Class.**_

In the dull and airless meeting room at the Omnian Citadel, the Species Awareness Training progressed on its rather didactic and joyless course.

Ms Partleigh, full of her own self-importance, was remorselessly grinding on about the Rights of Dwarfs and how they should be treated with respect and consideration. In the background, the grotesque and fussy little vampire woman, the Countess von Vinkling, or _Winking,_ was discreetly briefing a couple of guest speakers who would do brief presentations and then leave again.

Philip Holtack sighed and gloomily adjusted the set of a self-adhesive paper badge, one of those things that get handed out at conferences and committee members have to wear, lest they forget their own name or that of the other people sitting in the room. It had his own name on it, painted on with one of those marker pens he'd last seen at the Palace and which he gathered were high-tech here. The glue was some sort of mucous sludge that he feared was going to make a mark on his new clothes... _oh hell, nothing for it._ _Maybe Matkin would know how to get the stain out._ **(1)**

He thought gloomily for a moment about his acquired manservant and valet, who had been on hand to help him dress that morning. He suspected the man was taking advantage of his raw newness to this town to fleece him for tips. He'd have to ask Willikins what the accepted form was. He really didn't want to end up doubling or trebling the man's weekly take-home pay out of his diminishing cash resources. On the other hand, Matkin's rodent-like grasp of the realities of living in this city was another Asset to be carefully nurtured. He hadn't realised, for instance, they had contraceptives in this place, not until Matkin had thoughtfully slipped a packet in his inside pocket prior to his date with Sally.

And the clothes... suitable attire for a young gentleman, certainly, and thank you so much, Lady Sybil. But they took some getting used to, and he'd _need_ a valet. And hadn't Seven Platoon taken the piss when he'd turned up in local civvies... even though Powell and the rest had been offered civvie clothes "suitable to their standing" so that they could blend in and be anonymous. Ruijterman and Hughes were in some sort of uniform: Holtack gathered it was standard Watch issue, everyday practical working clothes for the local police. Sergeant Williams had been tailored with far better quality civvies, looking like they'd been scrounged up from a reputable second-hand shop. These marked him down, in the informal local heirarchy, as some sort of relatively affluent skilled tradesman. Powell and Williams were in whatever workman's clothes that fitted: Holtack gathered they were working out their minimal sentence for theft, burglary, oh, and GBH, as labourers in the local park, digging things up.

In between cracking jokes about who the male model was, in all the swanky new clothes and things, they'd assured him their needs were being met – clothes, food and an indoor bed for the night – and two of them were now even on the Watch payroll as auxiliaries. Holtack was relieved – one obvious responsibility for the men he commanded had been taken care of.

He leaned back in the uncomfortable rickety chair and allowed himself a slight smile. Church halls were the same _anywhere_, he thought. Designed to remind people that bodily comfort was sinful and an Ungodly ostentation. Ms Estrella Partleigh was having a hard time of it up front. She really hadn't been warned about the people she was being employed to preach to. _Or, perhaps, that devious wily Vetinari meant this to be some sort of obscure subtle punishment for __**her,**__ too..._

"The Dwarfs are a _great_ and a _noble_ people!" she emphasised, growing more red in face. Her lips, never the fullest, were invisible. Holtack looked across at the rather wobegone little dwarf sitting at one end of the semicircle she had ordered them to arrange their chairs into. He looked furtive, somewhat rat-like, somewhat undernourished. Despite the mandatory chainmail and accoutrements, he did not evoke the proud warrior spirit of a Gimli Gloinsson. Had this been Elrond's conference at Rivendell, the rest of the Dwarfs would have kindly told him his presence wasn't required, and could he go and, I don't know, sweep the stables or something? Holtack squinted to read the names. The Dwarf had started writing it in some sort of Runes, only for Ms Partleigh to kindly ask him to do it again in Morporkian. There had been a moment of confusion with the Dwarf looking miserable and confused, holding the pen as if it were an unexploded grenade. Then Sergeant Williams, a practical man, had seen the difficulty and said "Maybe if you spell it for me, _cor-bach,_ I could write it for you?"

"Do not _dare _patronise him!" Ms Partleigh had hissed. Sergeant Williams had half-frowned, half-smiled up at her, and said:

"No shame in not being able to read or write in a foreign language, miss. These things can be learnt. I have worked with Dwarfs this last day or two and I have to say they shapes up very handy. Good soldiers. I would not like a fight with one!"

_If she has any sense at all, she'll be told, _Holtack thought. He usually deferred to his platoon sergeant if Williams thought he was in the wrong. It saved time. Williams then ignored her, leaving her to fume while he sorted out the phonetic spelling of the Dwarf's name.

"That's Ratbert Ratmetzgersson, _cor-bach_? Myself, I'm Emlyn Williams. Sergeant to some here, but you is not one of my men. German name is it? Sorry, _Uberwaldean_? Pleased to meet you, Mr Ratmetzgersson!" **(2)**

It occurred to Holtack that even after five days in this strange place, not only was Sergeant Williams completely at home, he was showing more practical courtesy to Dwarfs than Ms Partleigh, for all her protestations, appeared capable of. Her attitude was one of unworldly reverence tinged with a sort of unconscious patronising-ness. He remembered meeting associates of Dennie's,**(3)** right-on London social workers who thought poverty conferred virtue, and who, to a Doc-Martined foot, had expressed horror at Denise Holtack's brother being one of the privileged sort who took pleasure in applying the boot and grinding the faces of the poor and underprivileged with it. _Who, me? _He'd been harangued about Northern Ireland, military repression, and treated at length to a discourse on the evil of Bloody Sunday. Not being a paratrooper and never having had the slightest desire to become one – he was temperamentally disposed against the idea of jumping out of aircraft at great height – Holtack had thought this was somewhat harsh. He had pointed out his men could shoot straight, for one thing, and had they started firing into a crowd with malice aforethought, they'd have clocked up a lot more kills for a lot less expended ammo. Well, he _had_ been provoked.**(4)**

" Dwarfs are a _great_ and a _noble_ people." she repeated, fighting for calm. Calm was losing; she was up against Powell, Hughes and Williams. Even the other, local, attendees at the meeting had perked up and were watching attentively. Maybe this wasn't going to be the dull and appalling punishment they thought it was going to be...

" A _great_ and a _noble_ people." she repeated, for the third time. "It positively behooves us to treat them with great respect and consideration!"

"She has got a point there." Head-Butt Powell said, exuding supportive agreement.

"She has indeed, Powell mun." said Fusilier Williams, nodding sagely.

Powell grinned his most innocent smile.

"I mean to say, mun, when these Australian lads came to Merthyr, and they set up the dwarf-throwing contest down the Miners' Welfare that night, it was a huge hit!"

"I know what you mean." Boy Hughes said. "We had some of that at the Raven, in Flint. Big hit, it was. Especially for the Dwarfs, if you took care and threw them right!" **(5)**

"My point exactly, Hughesy boy!" said Powell. "You has to take the little buggers with care and consideration. One hand on the back of the neck, see, and one on the waistband of the trousers. You has to take care with them and get the balance right, or else you cannot get the line and the length and they don't go very far."

"_Mr Powell!" _thundered Ms Partleigh, quivering with indignation. "I have never in my _life_ heard..."

"And get it wrong, the little buggers gets up and _complains_." Powell went on, blithely. "And one thing you do not want in this life is a bloody dwarf with a grievance running at you and nutting you on the kneecap. That bloody well _hurts_!"

"Their teeth come in at about bollock-height, too." observed Hughes. "And they _bite_!"

Ms Partleigh had by now been rendered speechless and was just a vertical quiver.

Hughes turned to his neighbour, a typical Ankh-Morpork citizen who was fighting to contain his amusement.

"Excuse me, mun." he said, conversationally. "We're all new to this town, see, and I can't help noticing there's a lot of dwarfs round by here. You people must have heard of dwarf-throwing. Know anywhere it happens?"

It was the dwarf, Ratbert Ratmetzgersson, who spoke.

"Lads? You Llamedosian lads?"

There was the usual moment of incomprehension until it was remembered that here, _Welsh_ was _Llamedosian. _

"You want the Fourecksian Embassy and High Commission." the Dwarf said, helpfully.

Powell turned to Holtack.

"Like Australian. They're the local Australians round here." he explained.

"Ah." said Powell. "Carry on, mun."

"The Cultural Attaché runs dwarf-throwing nights." said the dwarf. "The Embassy's above the Fourecksian pub on Green Dragon Road. The Flaming Kookaburra. Just off the Soake, nearby to Hide Park."

Ms Partleigh was fit to burst. She could hardly upbraid a _dwarf _for being politically incorrect. Holtack could see it was tying her in knots.

"It hardly becomes you to _encourage_ them, Mr Ratmetzgersson!" she said, at length. "Now I see why you were sent here. You quite clearly need to have your consciousness raised!"

"_Lowered_, surely?" asked Hans Rujterman, who until this moment had been silent. She reddened, but ignored him.

"Can't you see how _demeaning_ it is, mr Ratmetzgersson?" she almost pleaded with him. "This is _exactly_ the sort of thing the Campaign for Equal Heights was set up to fight and wipe out!"

The dwarf thought for a moment. Then he said

"You'll have a job, miss. The Kookaburra might have _started _as a pub, but it's an Embassy now. Fourecksian soil, see? And Fourecksian law applies. It's _cultural,_ miss. You can't muck with culture! And I don't know about _demeaning_. All I know is, it's popular and it's eight dollars a night, plus danger money, plus tips, plus free lager, plus free Igoring if anything gets broken. You don't get eight dollars for a night's work in many places round here!"

Ms Partleigh took a long drink of water to steady her nerves. It was a long drink.

"It's a fun job." said the Dwarf, reflectively. "You get out. You meet people. The one thing you _don't_ want, though, are bloody Trolls, buncha bloody rocks."

The troll, who was sitting at the other end of the semicircle, as far away from the Dwarf as he could get, in a very pointed way, stirred and rumbled.

"I mean, no idea of their own strength. Lots of brute force and loadsa ignorance. That bloody rock over there nearly threw me through the bloody _wall_!"

"Listen to me, garden ornament. I _did_ ap-oll-o-gise!" the troll rumbled. "What's wrong with you gritsuckers, can't take a joke, huh!"

There was a deathly silence. Philip Holtack put two and two together. There'd been a cultural misunderstanding at the dwarf-throwing event. A troll had thrown a dwarf too far. Things had escalated. Politically incorrect epithets had been exchanged. A fight had ensued. Arrests had been made. Vetinari had evidently sent both here – to the same session of Species Awareness Training, which could _not _be accidental – and the fight was rumbling on. It was like watching Powell squaring up to Andy Shank. Anyone trying to defuse it or wind it down would be caught, well, between a rock and a hard place. A hard _axe_, anyway. And he suspected Ms Partleigh would not be objective or even-handed towards trolls.

Sergeant Williams solved things.

"Gentlemen!" he said, in the commanding Sergeant voice. "This is not a place for fighting. We is all here to learn. _About_ each other, and _from_ each other. Besides, this is a church and a place of worship and if any of my men were to have a fight on Church Parade, they would get _more _than the usual degree of beasting for it!"

The voice had harmonics. It said "I am uniquely qualified to command respect and deliver beastings. Granted I have never beasted a dwarf or a troll before, but these here skills is _transferable_ skills. Do you still want to try your luck?"

Both the would be fighters sat down, sheepishly. Williams nodded approval.

"Good lads." he said. "Now my knowledge of trolls and dwarfs is minimal, but since I arrived here I has seen a place where you both lives and works in harmony. That taught me a little. I would be pleased if after today's event is concluded, you were both to join me in a nearby tavern where I hears as how molten sulphur is served to people of the troll persuasion. I would be pleased to stand you both a drink. Are we agreed on this?"

There was a reflective silence. Ms Partleigh breathed out. She had the grace to say "Thank you, Mr Williams. Most constructive. Er.."

Then she gathered herself, and evidently chose to deal with the intractable problem of Hughes, Powell and the others by ignoring them. She picked on Holtack and skewered him with an uncomfortable glare. Not a full-bodied Alice Band glare, but a creditable imitation. It went on for a little too long.

"Mr Holtack." she said, at length. "My notes about you tell me you are an _educated _man. "you and your... _colleagues_... have apparently arrived in this world from a different planet, owing to some kind of highly untidy and unsatisfactory magical accident." She sniffed. "In my humble opinion, the University precipitates _far_ too much of this sort of thing and should be stopped. In the event, you are here, and I can see you are all in desperate need of education."

Her glare took in Powell and Hughes, who contrived to look completely innocent.

"Some of you, more so than others." she added. "Indeed, I can see your attitudes all need to be orientated towards correctness _Is there anything funny, Mr Powell?"_

_Oh dear,_ thought Holtack. _Wrong choice of words there._ _Now she's actually __**called**__ it an Orientation, there'll be no going back. No holding them now._

"Mr Holtack, I was briefed that on your arrival in this City, when you were detained by the Watch, you were observed to treat Dwarf officers in the Watch in a matter-of-fact way, as if you had encountered them before and they were not out of the ordinary to you. Yet your reaction to meeting Sergeant Detritus was one of horror and alarm and fear."

_Perfectly reasonable and natural, I would have thought. s_omeone muttered.

_Dat Detritus? He even scare other trolls! _

"I conclude that dwarf people exist on your world. Would you care to tell us all about them? And please, _without_ reference to any sort of indignities inflicted on them by drunken oafs in seedy taverns for pleasure!"

Holtack thought furiously.

"Well, there's a nice family who live in my home village in Wales." he said, trying to get his thoughts into order. The Evanses were a nice bunch. He'd been to primary school with the son, Evan Evans. The parents made a tidy living as...

"Carry on." Ms Partleigh invited.

"They work in stage, theatre and TV" he said. "Entertainment, that is. They're ferociously busy around Christmas..."

There were unmistakeable Seven Platoon sniggers in the background as agile minds saw where he was going.

"Your officer is speaking, lovely boys!" Sergeant Williams growled.

"But you call it _Hogswatch _here, don't you? Anyway, dwarfs do exist on Earth. Er... there aren't many of them. There are plays, performances if you like, that specifically call for dwarf actors. A lot of our dwarfs find pretty constant employment, as there tend to be more more working parts than there are dwarfs. Er."

He recalled Evan Evans from early education at the _Ysgol Yr Eifl_ near Llangollen. At first, apart from an oddly shaped face, he hadn't stood out much among five year olds of similar height. But as the years passed, it had become apparent there was something odd about Evan. The other kids' parents had nudged and slapped and ordered their kids not to stare, whenever Evan's parents came to pick him up after school. Mr and Mrs Evans only came up to the waists of other adults, maybe a little further. It was hard _not_ to look. And he'd largely been accepted as a classmate. When some of the more unkind kids had made reference to his diminutive height and his slightly different facial features, the amicable and friendly Evan had become a leaping blur of aggression, all fists and feet and teeth. It had taken three of them to prise him off Iollo Price, a far bigger boy, who had carried the teethmarks on his nose for some time after. And the Evanses were a fiercely independent family, living in a house where everything had been adapted for their special needs. About the only time they needed help, and the village had contributed generously, was when _really_ deep snow had piled up in drifts of over four feet. _Everyone_ had offered to pile in with spades and shovels...

"Mr Holtack?" the harsh voice prompted. He realised he'd been lost in memories of Home.

"What sort of acting do dwarfs do on your world?"

There were more sniggers, swiftly muted. He thought, frantically. It wouldn't do to mention _circuses _or_ clowning..._ the Evans parents had done that too.

"Respectable roles, miss. Often drawing on folklore and old tales."

_Heigh-ho! _A Welsh voice. Others picked it up. _Heigh ho! Heigh ho! It's off to work we go!_

The Discworld dwarf looked round with surprise.

"You've even got the _Heigh-Ho_ song on your world! I'd never have guessed!" he said.

Powell and the others broke up in some confusion.

"How many dwarfs exist on your world, Mr Holtack? How well are they treated? Do they have _equality_?"

Holtack thought back. He recalled a mellow night in the Mess where the new medical officer, a man who had done time in a busy Accident and Emergency ward before electing to join the Army, had been answering all the inevitable questions.

After exhausting all the possibilities involving Strange Things People Insert Into Their Own Or Indeed Other People's Bodily Orifices, And Their Subsequent Retrieval, the M.O. had been discussing other weird and off-colour things that an emergency room doctor will get to see in the course of his career. There had been much appreciative laughter, and even Alice Band had appeared to enjoy herself.

"Dwarfs are funny things." the M.O. had mused. "You've all heard about dwarf pornography, right? That's a specialised taste where male dwarfs get to do the business with all sorts of things." He had then launched into a long and involved tale about a male dwarf who had, shall we say, got himself dog-knotted into a normally endowed human woman who must have been six foot tall, give or take an inch. This embarrassing but not unknown medical condition occurs when the penis is so engorged with blood, and for whatever reason the woman is running a bit dry, that he cannot disengage. Well, he'd been deliverd to A&E by the local fire brigade, who for some reason had been first on the scene, and who had concluded that cutting equipment was not mandated in _these_ circumstances. The police had then got involved, on the grounds that they'd heard a complaint that an adult woman was having sexual relations with a grossly underaged boy. The patients had then been delivered on a stretcher, covered for decency and anonymity, by firemen and policemen who were finding it hard to conceal their grins. Then when the A&E nurses had composed themselves, the appropriate erection-killing medication had been applied - "I can prescribe that for Lieutenant Probert, who I'm told has a problem keeping it in his trousers? No?" **(6) **and the amorous couple had been parted.

" Oh, they could have sex, alright, it's just that the poor woman had nobody to actually _talk_ to, if you get my drift. Anyway, the point is, the genetic condition that causes dwarfism acts to shorten the arms and legs, the torso too, to some extent, and it causes slightly changed facial features like the craggy jaw and pronounced forehead, but it leaves the wedding tackle alone, as if it belonged to a normally sized human. Makes them much in demand in porn movies, I'm told." the doctor had said. "It makes dwarves look as if they've got bloody enormous todgers by comparison to the rest of them, but it's just an optical illusion. So no point in rushing off to find yourself a friendly dwarf just yet, Rebecca!" (This had been to Second Lieutenant Rebecca Trett, a painfully new arrival with the unit).

Holtack thought about relating the story, but it would only add to the poor woman's woes. Or maybe he'd hold it in reserve for if she got _really_ obnoxious... he dredged up the details.

"On Earth, it's all because of a genetic condition called _.__Achondroplasia." _

he said, remembering the M.O.'s informal lecture. It had been hard to forget. "It accounts for about one in forty thousand births." _Fifty-five million divided by forty thousand. Knock off the noughts, that's 55,000 divided by four... _"I'd say the dwarf population of my country is about fourteen thousand, miss. That's among fifty-five million people."

"So you're _really _saying there are no such thing as dwarfs on your world, only _shorter humans_?" Ms Partleigh demanded, seeming happier at winning a point.

"Well, er, yes. That's what I'm saying."

"And how do you know" she pressed onwards, furiously, " that it is _not_ normally-sized people on your world who have this so-called disorder?" she demanded. "That in reality, it is the dwarf people who are correctly sized and shaped, and _everyone else _has a genetic disorder prompting them to be too tall and too long in the limbs?"

Holtack had faced down the City Council and argued with people like Lord Rust. He'd even crossed wits with Vetinari. OK, so he'd lost, but it had been a fair try. But here, confronted with Estressa Partleigh's monumental tunnel-vision and monomania, he was almost speechless.

"Er.. weight of numbers, miss? The majority in any population gets to decide what the norm is..."

But she wasn't listening. He wondered if she _ever_ listened: some of Dennie's right-on feminist cohorts had the same functional defect, and were happy to provide your side of the conversation from a pre-set script somewhere inside their heads. He wondered how somebody like his sister put up with them.

The short fat Morticia Addams was gesturing frantically at Ms Partleigh, who eventually registered this and turned, excusing herself, to go for a huddled whispered conversation in the doorway. Holtack had the impression that something large was looming on the other side. Another woman had been standing there, inconspicuously watching the show, and betraying nothing on her face. She was slim, slender even, well-shaped, obviously human, and was attractive, in a tenacious terrier sort of way. She was also _smoking,_ something Ms Partleigh had refused the rest of them with a contemptuous "we are here to _learn_, not to smoke!" Holtack thought he'd seen her, in the background, at the City council meeting. They had not been introduced. And the smell of the tobacco was reaching the attendees, all of whom were reminded they hadn't had a tab for hours...

"Oh, very well!" Ms Partleigh was heard to say, impatiently. She returned to the speaker's position in front of the class.

"I have been reminded that today is not all about dwarfs." She paused, incredulous that such a point of view was possible. "And that time is money and that some people have a business to run. Therefore the Countess and I will take a short break and leave you in the care of Miss Adora Belle Dearheart, of the Golem Trust, and her associate Mr Pump, who no doubt will take a _strong_ line on any disruption or bad behaviour. The Countess von Winking - _Vinking _– will take the class later. Thank you for your participation, and goodbye for now!"

She flounced out, followed by the fat vampire. The slender woman stepped forward, still smoking, and cupped the elbow of her smoking hand under the palm of the other. She ran her eye over the class, silently, and eventually nodded.

"Right, I'll keep it brief and to the point." she eventually said. "I've seen enough to realise some of you have a low tolerance threshold for bullshit. I'm not here to preach at you, just to tell you about _golems_."

Powell raised a hand. She nodded, warily.

"Please, miss, can we smoke?" he asked.

She nodded, and a slight smile crossed her face.

"I'm hardly likely to tell you no, am I?" she said. "If it makes you more attentive and easier to deal with, please do!"

"Mun, I think I'm in love!" said Powell, appreciatively. The woman grinned.

"After Estrella, I'm willing to bet you'd fall in love with _anyone_." she said, unoffended. "Did I introduce myself? My name is Adora Belle Dearheart, and I run the Golem Trust. Among other things it advocates for the rights of working golems in this city, and I'm here to tell you about them. First thing. Can any of you tell me what a golem is? One of the Visitors to this city, maybe?"

"Oh, _gollums_. Easy, is that." said J.J. Williams, eagerly. "Rat-like little thing. Obsessed with Rings. Hisses a lot when it talks, talks about _my preciousss, hygiene_ problem, eats fish..."

Adora Belle Dearheart frowned.

"I can see you people have got a _lot_ to learn." she said. "Although that description reminds me of something the Queen of Lancre told me she saw once, and the witches weren't able to work out."**(7) ** She paused. "Look, because of what the man people are pleased to describe as my _fiancée_ does for a living, I get invited to a lot of official receptions as his plus-one. Doesn't mean I make a habit of hob-nobbing or any other sort of biscuiting with royalty. It's all Balls, anyway. Often very tedious, long ones."

Her attitude softened slightly.

"Now to introduce you to a friend of mine." she said. "Mr Pump, would you come in, please?"

Something large and ponderous moved into the hall, taking meticulous care to turn slightly so as not to damage the door frame.

"Bloody hell!" said Powell, nearly choking on his cigarette.

It was large, broad, and roughly humanoid, with terracotta-red colouring and two large glowing red eyes. It exuded power and strength. Holtack was unmoved, having met the police golems and now knowing what they were.

"Hello!" boomed Pump, in a voice exuding bonhomie and friendliness. "My name is Mr Pump. I currently work for Lord Vetinari as a Probation Officer."

"I bet nobody ever re-offends." muttered Hughes. The golem turned its smiling face to Hughes.

"The recidivism rate is currently near to zero, yes." it said. "I find it to be extremely interesting and socially valuable work, mr Hughes!"

"Mr Pump has been briefed as to who you all are." the woman said, tiny next to its bulk.

"Indeed, miss Dearheart! All of you in this room have recently offended, although nowhere seriously enough as to warrant my active intervention."

"I'm very pleased to hear that, mun." muttered Powell, who was having serious cognitive dissonance as to how this thing fitted into the same cave as Bilbo Baggins.

"Ah, Mr Powell! Several counts of breaking and entering, burglary, unlicenced theft, and an accessory to use of a Gonne and grievous bodily harm, in that the senior park-keeper, Mr Robert Flowerdew, was incapacitated by a missile fired by a Gonne. Although Lord Vetinari believes you can become a useful member of the community if suitably directed and supervised, and he was minded to treat you with leniency."

"A typical example of a working golem." she said, happily. "Spelt G-O-L-E-M, by the way. Now let me fill you all in as to what golems are on _this_ world, as opposed to what they are on yours..."

And so the morning progressed. Holtack was attentive, and pleased that Seven Platoon were treating _this_ woman with all the respect she deserved. He also learnt about golems and how to deal with them. It was useful stuff, delivered neutrally and without any preaching or flannel.

At the end of her presentation, Miss Dearheart said:

"I really have to go now, but I'd like to say you've all been a pleasure to work with. It makes this outreach work easier. Just one little piece of advice, though: Estrella Partleigh may be a total div, but she is in charge here and she has the power to refer any of you back to the Patrician if she thinks you haven't benefited from this course. And _at the very least_ that means sitting through all her Gods-awful garbage again. At the end of the day she sets a written test. _Try_ to take it seriously and get a pass-mark. That's all, and welcome to Ankh-Morpork!"

It was good advice. Holtack sighed. Next up was Morticia Addams. He wondered if she was as bad at managing people as Estrella. He hoped there'd be some sort of break for lunch...

* * *

_To be continued! Thanks to Morthoron and Thranduil on the Cabbages and Kings forum for putting me in touch with the Little People of America organisation, whose website was most informative on things to do with dwarfs as they really are. Any errors are mine, not theirs._

* * *

**(1) **It would not have helped if he'd known the glue was made out of the refined essence of boiled slugs.

**(2) **In Yiddish, a _metzger_ is a kosher butcher. Hack author "Leo Kessler" gave this name to the impeccable Nazi sergeant-major in his Waffen-SS potboilers about the _Wotan_ battalion, possibly as a snide in-joke.

**(3) **Denise tried to avoid referring to them as "friends". If you identified yourself as a feminist in the 1980's, they came with the turf. Philip Holtack suspected she'd introduced them to her brother - and to Alice Band – out of devilment and a desire to educate both sides.

**(4) **Bloody Sunday – the occasion where the Parachute Regiment lost it completely, and discipline broke down to the point that they started firing wildly into largely unarmed and largely peaceful demonstrators – remains a black mark against the whole British Army, and its consequences affected _everyone_ who subsequently served in N.I. Even if they were fired on by IRA terrorists using the demo for cover – and good evidence says this is what happened – then the response was wild, uncontrolled, and wholly disproportionate. One embarrassing and wholly unintended consequence for the British military was that, in subsequent inquiries, it was revealed the Paras had blazed off over a thousand rounds. And, given a packed mass of sitting targets at pretty close range, only _thirteen_ people had been killed. In closed military circles, it was grimly accepted that the accuracy of the British infantryman, on this basis, left a lot to be desired. Up until the Falklands War in 1982, the Parachute Regiment was the butt of much black humour from other Toms concerning not being able to hit a barn door at ten feet, et c. Much remedial work was done on improving small arms proficiency, not least the ability to think clearly and respond appropriately when under fire, in the rest of the 1970's and early 1980's. This author humbly wonders why the Israeli Defence Forces, for one, have not grasped the lesson that if your first and preferred response to being demonstrated against is to respond with lethal force, it does tend to harden attitudes towards you, on the part of the people you are deploying lethal force against... who then manifest a wholly irrational and intrinsically bloody-minded desire to play catch-up with whatever resources come to hand. (That's not a comment on the rights and wrongs of the Israel-Palestine situation: just sheer hard-won common sense.)

**(5) **The Raven is a pub in Flint, North Wales, that used to have a serious reputation, even among hard-bitten Flintshire drinkers whose day jobs were in coal or steel. When miners from Point of Ayr encountered steelworkers from Shotton, all the usual informal tests of hard-working masculinity would ensue in a sort of cheerful mayhem. I'm told that a pub that could give the Mended Drum competition has since reformed and moved upscale, though. I had a lunchtime beer in there the last time I was home. Not a single fight or even an exchange of dirty looks, and some people were even drinking _coffee_...

**(6)**Lieutenant "Shagger" Probert, a notorious amateur Casanova, had taken it in good humour.

**(7) **See** Witches Abroad **by Terry Pratchett, in which a Gollum-like creature makes an enigmatic and brief appearance chasing a boat on a river in which he thinks there is a birthday present for him...


	50. The Queen leaves the chessboard (for now

_**Slipping Between Worlds - **_

_**the fiftieth frenzied chapter. A fiftiteth chapter deserves some sort of celebration, even if the end is as far away as it ever was. **_

While Holtack and his men were being informed and educated about Dwarfs, the rest of the city of Ankh-Morpork was going about its everyday business. By mid-day, there had been twenty-three legal thefts, twelve authorised break-ins, four unlicenced muggings, two bona fide Assassinations, three acts of clumsy untutored style-free amateur inhumations of no conceivable interest to the Guild but of every concern to the Watch, twelve arrests for various lesser offences, and a hundred and seventeen acts of Negotiated Affection. Traffic on Short Street was backed up as far as the gate, and Traffic Division were happily booking people who didn't have a counter-inducement to offer. Two lost swamp dragons were rounded up and taken to the Sunshine Sanctuary. The Zoo noted a feral cat choose its moment and stroll fearlessly into the lion enclosure. A well-fed lion rolled over and burped happily as the cat ignored it and strolled unconcernedly over to the meat carcass the lions had recently gorged on. It hunkered down and began eating, as Senior Keeper Pontoon scratched his head and said "Bugger me, I've seen it all now."**(1)**

In pubs across the city, the first of what would be several thousand gallons of beer began to pour down the first of several thousand throats. Two such pints have been poured for a couple of old associates meeting in a pub. The fact the pub is the Ramkin Arms on Cheap Street is a private joke between the two, who have met here before. The Ramkin is also a large establishment doing a thriving mid-day trade. If people want to be anonymous here, it is easy.

"So what have you got?" the first man asked. He discreetly looked around to see if anyone was watching. Or listening. The second man grinned a rat-like little grin.

"What have _you_ got?" he asked. "The usual payment?"

The first man frowned.

"I've known you for ten years, Jake." he said. "Ever since you worked at the Guild. I know you're reliable and the information you give..._sell_... to us has always been good. But look at it from my point of view. The Quirmian gentlemen who ask me to meet you for a drink from time to time are both, not to put too fine a point on it, bloody _paranoid. _They trust nobody. Sell them a dud, and that's your usefulness over and the money supply dries up. Worse than that, they will suspect _me_. And I can't afford that to happen. 'Specially since your current employer has got his own people in the spying game now, and they're getting to be _good_ at it. Which means we get woe from _both_ sides. Are you hearing me, Jake?"

Jake Matkin nodded.

"Take it from me, I'm being careful, Bill. You know I got the job at Ramkin Manor on a forged CV that very carefully omits the fact I worked for the Guild for five years. Monsieur.."

"_Don't say it!"_ Bill hissed.

"...The Quirmian gentleman of whom you speak was very helpful in getting me fake references from a person who owed the Guild a favour. And Her Ladyship is a bloody good employer, she's kind and considerate and she makes sure all the staff get a Hogswatch present and floats enough cash for staff outings, it's His Lordship I'm worried about. And Plodder Willikins. He's slow, but if he ever finds out the Guild is matching my pay dollar for dollar and then some, then I'm as good as dead, Bill. So you can tell the Quirmians that now might be time for some danger money, right?"

_And it'll ease my conscience for spying on Lady Sybil, _Matkin thought. _Say what you like, she's a bloody good woman. But her old man still sent my father and my brother to the Tanty. _

Bill looked at him levelly. One of the portering staff at the Guild of Assassins, he was used to being asked to handle this sort of routine assignment that went over and above the job description. It got him a handsome tip from Monsieur leBalouard and Doctor Perdore. Well, the gentlemen preferred to put a necessary distance between themselves and their spies and contacts.

"The gentlemen asked me to express their appreciation of the information that your house-guest wants to learn about sword-fighting." Bill said. "It meant they were able to brief La Belle Dame Sans Merci to make him an offer he can't refuse."

"The old beldame?" Matkin said, confused. Bill sighed and rolled his eyes. He didn't speak much Quirmian, but he was proud of the bits of soldier-Quirmian he'd gleaned while in the regiments.**(2)**

"No, no, no. You know, Madame Sans-Culottes. Deux-Epées. Two-Swords. _Hotlips._ You know?"

"Oh, her?" Matkin was suddenly interested. "_She's_ teaching him swords? The poor bugger really _is_ an innocent abroad, isn't he?"

"Depending on which way it goes, he'll die. Or he'll die happy. Or both."

"Hmm." said Matkin. "He's already survived a vampire. That one in the Watch. Sexpot Sally. Doesn't do blood these days, just sucks men dry of _other_ bodily fluids. I saw him after she delivered him home. Couldn't tell arseholes from breakfast-time. But then, he is a Rupert and whatever planet he's from, it shows Ruperts are the same everywhere."

"Tell me about the vampire." Bill said. "They'll want to know about her. If he's made friends with a vampire..."

"_More_ than made friends, according to Watch gossip."

"..then this is an extra complication. The Guild want this man, Jake. The Gentlemen have said this is very important. We do _not_ want to upset the Gentlemen..."

Money was eventually discreetly exchanged. Across the pub, Detective Sergeant Jim Gerbilac of the Cable Street Particulars watched, having placed both men. He was off-duty and, for preference, had dropped into a pub other than the Bucket for a quiet reflective pie and a pint. But seeing a man he recognised as an Assassins' Guild employee having a surreptitious drink with a man he recognised as a footman at Ramkin Manor rang an alarm bell he couldn't ignore. And that arm movement. Had money changed hands? He'd mention it to André Loudweather when he got back to Cable Street. Commander Vimes might want to know.

Gerbilac was an experienced man, originally from the Shires, the Pullover region where while people spoke Quirmian, the area belonged to Ankh-Morpork owing to one of _those _long-time historical accidents. Gerbilac had got bored with policing in an area that had autonomous tax status, meaning the real villains could never be touched, and had applied to the City force. He had never looked back after that. Even if his then wife had screamed blue murder at the thought of leaving comfortable upscale Maillot, and moving to _that_ place.**(3) **

But if people want to be anonymous in the Ramkin Arms, it is even easier for a plain-clothes policeman. The two surreptitious drinkers did not give him a single glance as he drank up and unhurriedly left.

* * *

And over at the Zoo, in the University's specialised research enclave, a conference was beginning. Watchmen guarded the doors and windows, and Assassins were discreetly patrolling the adjacent area, their very presence keeping the public away. Vetinari was presiding. He looked down with distaste at the Alien Queen, locked in her stasis field inside the octagram. Her still outline was just about visible inside the frosted glass, with a drift of caustic crystals piled up around it. Magical and mundane security was keeping the thing contained, for now. But Vetinari knew his city. He had the measure of its people. He'd witnessed the sort of things that could happen here. He therefore had no great confidence that this potentially City-threatening thing would _stay_ contained. In this city, there was always something. Or somebody.

"I wish for this thing to be destroyed." he said, to the select group of advisors who had been invited. "Are there any ideas? Anyone?"

Lord Rust, who despite having no expertise and no discernable purpose here, save being the sort of person you have to invite to this sort of conference for political reasons, gave a braying laugh.

"Do we _have_ to destroy it, Havelock?" he said, to general disbelief. "From what I understand, it's a sort of acid-breathing dragon. And it's just a pup. Can we not tame it? The brute'd be a powerful weapon of war. Nobody could fight it."

Vetinari frowned.

"Which is _exactly_ what various foreign ambassadors are fearful of, Ronald. Prince Alladin of Klatch expressed his misgivings this morning. As did Lord Doublebloom of Agatea, Mijnheer van der Graaf of Rimwards Howondaland, His Excellency Seamus O'Hooligan of Hergen, Arch-Duke Ivan the Slightly Irritable of Far Zlobenia, and Sir Desmond Matterhorn, High Commissioner of Fourecks."

"How the dickens did they get to hear of it?" Rust demanded. "Damn' bloody foreigners sticking their noses in..."

"_Sticking one's nose in_," Vetinari interjected, "can be held to be the primary duty of an Embassy in a foreign country. All of these Embassies have a network of compatriots to call on in this city, as well as dedicated intelligence services, and in any case something which has been extensively covered in the Times cannot be accounted all that secret in the first place!"

Vetinari's cursory glance around the room took in Johanna Smith-Rhodes from the Guild of Assassins, Olga Romanoff of the City Watch, and Doctor Bruce Berwin from Bugarup University.

"And I'm sure at least three people present will soon be called to their respective Embassies to give an account of these proceedings. Lest anyone be in doubt, I welcome that. Full and frank disclosure will ease misgivings and foster reassurance. But, Ronald. Have you leant nothing? This thing is lethal. This thing is intelligent. This thing has its own agenda and cannot be tamed or bidden. It is _deadly_. I wish it to be destroyed, so that we have one less threat to concern ourselves with. Any ideas? No great rush."

There was a hushed shuffling silence and a general averting of eyes. Nobody wanted to be asked first.

Commander Vimes broke the silence.

"Golems, sir?" he ventured. "They're pretty much indestructible and acid-proof. Constable Nebbish used to work in a chemical factory. We had to _seriously_ detoxify him before we let him out on the streets!"

Nebbish, when bought out from his lonely thankless task, had been a walking cloud of noxious chemical vapour. Even other golems had stood aside, as if this were some sort of terracotta BO. He had taken extensive baths in detoxicant solutions and a lot of steam-cleaning before being pronounced safe for the Watch-house and the streets.

Vetinari pondered this.

"It might work." he conceded. But then, we cannot afford to consider _might_ or _may_ work. I wish this solution to be completely infallible. What if the creature's strength is greater than a golem? We have no idea how large these things grow, although the inference to be drawn from the Roundworld moving picture is that they grow very large very quickly."

"Speaking of _solutions_, my Lord" said Joan Sanderson-Reeves, thoughtfully, "We know from experiment that strong caustics frighten it. What about dumping it in a bath of caustic potash and have a golem hold it down till it dissolves? That'd settle its hash!"

"Like Jeffrey, the Acid-Bath Killer of Pseudopolis, you mean?" asked Vimes. "Only not with acid."

Joan snorted.

"Acids would only _strengthen _it, Commander Vimes!" she said. "From her point of view, it'd be like a jolly long soak in a refreshing herbal bath!"

"That sounds...cruel." Johanna Smith-Rhodes said, doubtfully. She was temperamentally opposed to the prolonged suffering of animals, although she had delivered quick clean humane mercy killings when the situation called for it.

"Inhumation _with extreme prejudice_, Johanna." Joan reminded her colleague. "Sometimes the contract calls for it. Client pays a handsome surcharge, too!"

Vetinari acknowledged the Assassin input.

"But letting it free, even for a few seconds..." he mused. "And we still do not know if Golem strength will suffice. So many things we do not know about this creature. Save that it threatens the City."

He looked up.

"Arch-chancellor Ridcully?" he invited. "Can we use magic?"

"We already have, I think!" Ridcully boomed. "That's what's holdin' her there. But what gives me pause for thought, Havelock, is that we don't know for sure where this thing is _from. Y_oung Stibbons summarised the possibilities for you, and one of 'em is that this beast is from the Dungeon Dimensions. It could just be sittin' there pretendin' to be affected and biding its time, while it soaks up the magic we're thoughtfully feedin' it through the octagram. That's just a thought, you follow, but with the most important civic and political leaders gathered around the thing right now..."

There was a silence. Then Mrs Palm of the Seamstresses' Guild muttered

"I _really _wish you hadn't said that, Mustrum."

There was a chorus of murmured assent. All eyes turned to the baleful hunched shape of the Queen, who suddenly seemed slightly too small for the confining glass. Even the unheeded domestic who was industriously sweeping the floor turned to look.

Vetinari frowned.

"Escapee from the Dungeon Dimensions. A thing of dark imagination on Roundworld, made real here owing to the recent breach between the dimensions, inadvertently given shape and form here by our guests."

"Oh, yes." somebody murmured. "Our _guests._"

"Who are, even as we speak, performing a kind of penance and hopefully learning more about our City, as I require them to." the Patrician added, smoothly.

"Professor Stibbons has raised the possibility this might indeed be a most dangerous Dungeon Dimensions entity, one which has forsaken magic and chosen a more stable form. This implies great intelligence. And there is also Constable Romanoff's encounter with its mind, in which it purported to be a thing latent within our own world, which buds and comes to fruition when the time is right. In which case we need to know exactly how many other such seeds are out there. In due time, I propose to finance an expedition."

Johanna Smith-Rhodes perked up expectantly and tried to communicate her immediate availability for such a field trip. Vetinari smiled slightly.

"And when the time is right, I am sure the _very_ best people can be sent out" he acknowledged. Johanna noted his gaze took her in, briefly, but it settled on...

"Professor Rincewind, you appear agitated?" he inquired. The hapless Wizzard was trying to look small in the middle of the University delegation. He had been casting what he evidently hoped were discreet looks at the doors and windows. Ridcully suddenly looked smug.

"He's up to about six, would you think, Stibbons?" he stage whispered, audibly to everyone.

"At least six, sir." Ponder Stibbons confirmed.**(4)** "Actively looking for an escape route. But that's normal for Rincewind. We don't need to worry until he's up to eight."

Miss Pretty Butterfly, Agatean ninja and honorary Assassin, took a closer grip of his arm and scowled at him. It was generally agreed Butterfly was the ideal bodyguard for Rincewind. She actually _liked_ him, for one thing.

"As Egregious Professor of Cruel and Un-natural Geography, a field trip to Karn-Li would suit you right down to the ground, Professor!" Vetinari said, genially. "Capital!"

Then he turned back to the Queen.

"I still need ideas, ladies and gentlemen". he reminded them. He became aware of an insistent hissed and whispered conversation going on. It had overtones of an irritated Rimwards Howondalandian trying to get a point across discreetly. The fact an excited Rimwards Howondalandian was trying to be discreet doomed the attempt to failure.**(5)**

"Miss Smith-Rhodes?" Vetinari said, smoothly. "You have a point to present?"

Johanna Smith-Rhodes, who had consistently expressed opposition to housing this thing in her Zoo for longer than it needed, stepped forward.

"Sir." she said. "I was running an idea pest Professor Stibbons for his consideration. We know thet when we delivered a care peckege to the Hive the other efternoon, severel exothermic elchemy devices in the right places completely destroyed the _verdemmte_ place, end conclusively inhumed the old Queen."

Vetinari nodded. "That issue was, er, successfully taken care of, I agree." he agreed. "And I do appreciate the colourful idioms being introduced into our everyday discourse from Rimwards Howondaland. Linguistic input from around the Disc makes Morporkian _such_ an expressive and versatile language. "**(6)**

"Indeed, sir." she said, carefully. She was aware one of Vetinari's own deadly weapons was to seemingly go off at a tangent, relaxing the listener into making further indiscretions, whilst he assembled an even deadlier torpedo of his own to aim and fire back.

"And you believe such a care package might deal with our current situation? Please explain." Vetinari invited her.

She stepped forward, trying to project the air of dealing with a rather slow class of students that, nonetheless, contained at least one with a flash of insight who could make the teacher look slow and ill-prepared. This, she thought, might end up like the occasion she tried to teach Arachne Webber about spiders. **(7)**

"I heve been speaking to Professor Stibbons ebout one possibility for disposal of this thing." she began, assembling her argument carefully. This was Vetinari, not a class of student Assassins. "Es you know, sir, the Professor end I hev collaborated on several potentially dangerous essignments in service of the city..." out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ponder grimace slightly and shudder. "Thet is because there ere skills the Guild of Essessins does not hev. From time to time we need to colleborate with professional colleagues et the Thieves' Guild or et the University, to esk their essistence end edvice."

She glared as a voice muttered something about "Yes, sometimes the collaboration's so good we can hear it in the street."

Ponder reddened.

"Sir, a big enough quentity of the right exothermic elchemy reagant cen destroy _enything_." she said.

"Miss Smith-Rhodes, I do not doubt you." Vetinari said, patiently. "But how do we know what is an appropriate quantity of the correct explosive for this thing? We are, unhappily, ignorant."

"Leonerd of Quirm hes an exciting theoreticel usege for the alchemicel substence known es _Uselessium_" she said, getting visibly excited. "End its alchemicel relative, _Gaspodium_. I hev not yet hed an opportunity to speak to our Visitors es much es I would like. But they essure me thet on Roundworld, this hes been perfected es en explosive thet can inhume en entire _city_!"

Vetinari blinked. He'd read the HEX printouts on the fate of the Roundworld cities of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. He'd also read about Three Mile Island and Chernobyl, as further proof that the Discworld would never devise New Clear Power if he, Vetinari, had anything to do with it. **(8) **And here was a trusted Assassin with a penchant for serious explosives who was clearly all in favour of trying it out to see if it worked...**(9)**

"Miss Smith-Rhodes," he said, trying to grab an extra second of thought, "Are you seriously considering we use an untried and potentially devastating explosive on this creature?"

"Why not, my Lord?" Johanna said, smiling. "Es my colleague Miss Senderson-Reeves hes said, _inhumation with seriously extreme prejudice_ mey be the correct response here!"

"I didn't advocate going _that _far, m'dear!" Joan said, hurriedly, regretting her earlier insinuation that sometimes Johanna could be too _nice _about things. To a Rimwards Howondalandian, this could be interpreted as an insult...

Er.. Johanna..." said Sam Vimes, uncertainly. "You weren't there when we all witnessed the mess these things could make. They could blow an enormous hole in Roundworld, for one thing. Wasn't there a danger that one here could split the Disc in two? Seems a bit extreme!"

Vimes had made a very singular arrest on Roundworld. This had involved an unwelcome glimpse into the mentality of a General Rust of the United States Army, a man who even knowing what these things could do, had been put in charge of a mountain full of them, and was still prepared to use them out of a misplaced sense of duty.

"Cure worse than the disease!" somebody muttered.

"And besides" Vimes added, practically, "You'd have to shut down the time field on that bloody thing and transport it to somewhere miles away from the City. Leave it free for that length of time and who knows what it will do? It was bad enough having Olga fly it across the City."

Olga Romanoff scowled and shuddered. Her memory was still recent and fresh. She would not refuse an order to do it again – big things were at stake here – for she was a Far Zlobenian, one of a race prepared to go stoicly into the face of oblivion. Or in her case, swearing luridly at it.

"As I say, Mr Vimes, I work closely with Professor Stibbons." Johanna said. "From him, I have learnt much about wizard-megic."

Heads turned to look at her. Mustrum Ridcully threw a questioning and unfriendly glare at Ponder. Even Vetinari paused for a second, contemplating the idea of an Assassin with magical ability. He had strictly forbidden such dual-qualified people from existing. They were trouble.

"Not, my Lord, _ectively._" Johanna reassured him. "I hev no megickal ebility of my own. Knowing about the existence of certain spells is ecedemic to me. I would still need a wizard to ectivete them, end the Wizerds I know best would refuse to do such things unless they were essured they were not doing so egressively, or in anything other than an ecologically sound end environmentally beneficial way. But inevitably, I still know, but only in theory, what certain spells cen _do_."

"Miss Smith-Rhodes is one of two Assassins who act as my liaison people with the University, my Lord" Lord Downey intervened, smoothly. "She is trusted, and indeed an ideal person for this role."

"Demn' fine gel." agreed Mustrum Ridcully, who had a soft spot for Johanna. "Completely trustworthy, or I'd not have given her full access and a honorary Doctorate!"

"Indeed." Vetinari agreed. "But while the idea is a sound one – use of the most powerful reagant available, against an enemy of largely un-known strength and power – how do we employ it in such a way that the cure is not deadlier than the disease? And I'm _sure _I gave orders for Alchemists' Guild stocks of these explosive metals to be safely dispersed and disposed of?"

"Err..." said Mr Sendivoge, of the Alchemists' Guild. Vimes turned to glare at him.

"How much did you hide, Sendivoge?" he demanded. He'd been entrusted to oversee the disposal. "Olga, if I send you to assemble a squad – make it Trolls and Golems for safety... go and raid the Alchemists, would you?"

"No trolls, sir Samuel." Vetinari requested. "We do not need a repetition of the unseemly scenes where the former Constable Spodumene gave way to temptation and _ate _a substantial amount of uranium."

Vimes winced. Sending trolls to dispose of radioactive metals – which to them would have been like medical-grade pure heroin to humans – had not, in retrospect, been a good idea. It was reputed that after Spodumene had gone wild and dissappeared, thinking he had grown wings and become Clinkerbelle The Tooth Fairy, and could fly from the top of the Tump Tower, Chrysophrase had exhumed the irradiated corpse and ground it up for street drugs.

Sendivoge explained, hurriedly:

"You did get it all, Sir Samuel. But young alchemists persist in repeating the experiments. It's the only metal we've ever discovered that will change into other metals and, well, they keep hoping if they do it for long enough, they'll get gold..."

"Have the new stocks impounded, please, commander. Use golems." Vetinari said, patiently. Golems were immune to radioactivity and no drug had been found that would work on them.

Vimes nodded to Olga.

"You are excused, Contable Romanoff." the Patrician said, smoothly. "A search warrant is implicit in my word of command. Take Leonard, please, he will know what to look for and how to safely re-assemble it as an explosive device."

There was silence as Olga left, escorting Leonard of Quirm, a man gleeful at being allowed a long-awaited chance to prove a point.

"Was that wise, sir?" somebody asked.

Vetinari frowned.

"Extra-ordinary threats call for extra-ordinary responses. Mr Boggis." he said. "And I know Leonard is intelligent and prudent. He will report a lack of success if he considers assembly of the device is just too dangerous or otherwise impractical. It also gives him something to do."

"Even if we do build a super-powerful bomb, sir," Vimes said. "How do we deliver it safely? If it takes the whole City with it as well as _that_ thing..."

"I hev an idea for thet, Mr Vimes." Johanna said, urgently. "Based on what I know ebout certain megics, we do not move the creature _et ell._ Not even when the bomb is set up next to her. We ectivate the detonator here, on this spot."

There was general consternation. Vetinari raised an eyebrow.

"Here? In the Zoo? _Your _Zoo? Please explain." he invited her.

Johanna smiled.

"Doctor Berwin showed me the enclosure the Wizards hed devised for the Embiguous Puzuma on exhibit here. He was very proud of it. It heppens to be, es I understood him, not of this world et ell. Es I recell, it occupies a specially created dimension of space-time which is outside this world end the only window into it that shares our world is the viewing area. It is elso several thousand miles wide, in our terms. Whet if wizardy builds a similar new dimension eround this thing, so thet she is festened to the bomb end the bomb then explodes, efter a suitable delay, several thousand miles away inside the bubble? Hermless to us, but lethal to her!"

Vetenari looked up. A very slight smile crossed his lips. The Wizards present went into an excited huddle and started to loudly debate. Johanna smiled. She had not attended the emergency in the high Energy Magic Building where the fate of the Roundworld cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki had been debated. But other Assassins had. And Ponder was as wide-open to sypathetic interrogation from a pretty face who was inclined to be well-disposed towards him, just as much as Philip Holtack had been wide-open to Jocasta Wiggs. On a very specialised grapevine, something as exciting as a means to inhume an entire city with _very extreme hyper-prejudice _**(10) **is news that gets around quickly. Johanna was an Assassin. A well-balanced and in many ways likeable one, who outside a contract, or perhaps the presence of a very annoying person, would not _dream_ of being uncivil or violent. Well, not much, anyway. She was certainly not a Jonathan Teatime and was a _long_ way away from that. But oh, she wanted to watch an atom bomb go off. From a safe distance, naturally. Explosives of all kinds were her trade specialisation.

Vetinari smiled slightly.

"We seem to be getting somewhere and ideas appear to be emerging. Capital. Arch-Chancellor, your wizards have come to a conclusion?"

Mustrum Ridcully looked glum.

"I've just been reminded, sir, it took a long spell and a fair bit of input from HEX to do Maligree's Wonderful Garden to the size it had to be, to let that beast work up its full turn of speed. Took eight wizards, HEX, and most of a day. And what if Her Majesty here actually is a thing of magic and we just end up pourin' that amount of oomph into her?"

"Point taken, Arch-chancellor. Miss Smith-Rhodes?"

"There may be enother way, sir. Mr Ridcully. If this megicel field is currently slowing down time to the point where it is effectively frozen, is it possible to _reverse _time? I believe an interesting effect could be echieved by loading the creature with conventional exothermic elchemy reagants. We ignite the fuses. Then we send it twenty minutes back in time, end... BOOM!"

"But it would just go "BOOM!" in this room with us, you stupid girl!" Lord Rust exploded, "Where's the damn good in that?"

"It means when we see it re-appear in the room with us surrounded by smouldering fuses, we get twenty minutes to run!" Professor Rincewind said, practically.

"no, no, no, it doesn't work like that!" Mustrum Ridcully shouted. Listen, you fellows!"

As the argument rose in volume, Vetinari shook his head. He turned to the unheeded domestic, who stopped sweeping and looked quizzically up.

"If you'd be so kind, Mr Lu-Tze?" he requested. The saffron-robed monk grinned and gave a thumbs-up. He walked over to the Patrician, and all hubbub – and movement – in the room suddenly ceased.

"Thank you for coming." Vetinari said, sincerely. "As you can see we have a few little problems here. I suspect they are all inter-related."

The old monk nodded, sagely.

"Quantum. You get this sort of thing around quantum." he said, beginning to roll a cigarette from the remains of several dog-ends.

Vetinari frowned.

"If you have to smoke, Arch-Chancellor Ridcully has a packet of Necromancer cigarettes in his right robe pocket." he said, mildly. "They smell better, and I suspect would not be quite so third-hand."

He waited, placidly. Lu-Tze returned, this time smoking a tailor-made.

"Had to swap, else it would be theft." he said. "Mr Ridcully's one cigarette the less, but he's got three or four of my dog-ends to compensate him. He's a wizard. He'll never notice. Now what can I do for you, my Lord?"

"The Visitors." Vetinari said. "This vexatious situation here with the Queen. The breakthrough of the walls between worlds. People – and things – slipping between worlds."

"The old lady with the shopping trolley." Lu-Tze added. There was a meaningful pause. "We're looking for her too, sir. As are our people on Roundworld."

The Patrician was intrigued.

"You have people on Roundworld?" he asked.

"There are monasteries there too, sir". the old monk said. "Besides, our Abbot teaches the wise koan _**Do not worry about the other worlds and the other possibilities. We are there too.**_ Wise teaching." **(11)**

"Wise indeed." Vetinari said. "But our first problem is here and in front of us. What can we do about it?"

Lu -Tze tutted and did the reverse whistle through his teeth. To Vetinari, it sounded like a tradesman who was just about to tell you the bill would be much, much, bigger than you anticipated. This was not a soothing thought.

"Big problem. Agreed, sir. You don't want one of _these_ on the loose!"

"Have you seen them before?" Vetinari asked, politely.

"Not personally and not this close. But there was Karn-Li, ten thousand years ago. We had to sort that one out. I could pop back and ask, if you like. Take a day or two, though."

"Which we may not have." Vetinari mused. "Tell me, Miss Smith-Rhodes' idea. Is there any merit in it?"

"Well, to _reverse_ time, you have first got to go through a point where all time is zero. Not a good move. Things get all glass-clock, if you see what I mean. She _almost _worked it out, though. Must come of being brought up in a grassy steppe and semi-desert with big horizons on all sides and not much to see. Gets you thinking, see. Like the Klatchians and their desert."

"But was she right?" Vetinari pressed.

"Clever girl. She was more than halfway there and I can see her reasoning. The thing is, sir, that if the thing is sent back twenty minutes in time but not in space... how fast can a world-turtle move in twenty minutes? _We're_ still here. _She_ will be several thousand miles behind us in deep space. It doesn't need the wizards spending a day and a lot of magic building an extra-dimensional bubble. This is quicker and simpler. We won't need any new clear devices, either. We realised something about deep space when one of our novices projected himself out there on the wrong end of a Zimmerman Tube. Clot. There's no air out there. No atmospheric pressure. Normally everything in a human body is under pressure. Keeps everything clean and neat and well packaged, yes? But take that outside pressure away..."

lu-Tze spread his arms expressively.

"Boom." he said.

"Boom." said Vetinari.

"Boom." agreed Lu-Tze. "

it might not even _need_ a bomb. Everything's got to breathe, too."

Vetinari considered this. He looked around the very still and silent argument that had ceased to rage in the room.

"Can you do it?" he asked. "Push this thing twenty minutes back in time."

Vetinari made a mental note to recall Leonard of Quirm straight away. The desperation remedy of the New Clear Weapon would not now be required. So it was better not being built.

"We can do it, sir." Lu-Tze said. "Plenty of little cheats and sideways passages we've discovered. If I were you I'd give the wizards something to do. And get that clever girl to put a bomb together to go with her, one that makes lots of light, so you can pick it up on a telescope. It'll give 'em the warm glow that comes of having been needed."

"Proceed". Said Vetinari.

The room leapt back into noisy life, with the Patrician its one silent point, the fulcrum around which all else moved. The sheer force of his silence caused things to falter to an unsteady halt.

"I have decided." Vetinari said. "This is what we are going to do. Arch-chancellor Ridcully, your wizards will..."

And two hours later HEX projected a view of the starscape behind the World Turtle onto a wall where everyone could see it. There was a cheer as a bright new star briefly appeared, passing to nova and then fading again, quite a few thousand miles behind the Turtle.

Johanna Smith-Rhodes looked down at a perfectly octagonal hole in the floorboards. She expressed her regret it had taken the floor with it. A few forlorn crystals of caustic potash were liquefying on the wood.

"Nobody's perfect, m'dear." Ridcully said, smugly.

And so passed the Queen.

Meanwhile, in far Karn-Li, something scrabbled at the desert sand...

* * *

**(1) **This is not invention. This kind of thing does happen in zoos. Your average feral moggie survives traffic, inclement weather, infrequent feeding, dogs, foxes, attempted cruelty from people, et c. It is not going to be fazed by some bloody overgrown tabby it can easily outrun, and in any case I can clearly see the fat bastard's eaten its fill and it's just lying there. There's still good eating on those bones, and I'm having a share. Lions are well used to smaller predators and scavengers homing in on the remains of their kills. If the smaller scavenger picks the moment where the pride is glutted and sleeping it off, it can get in, feed and get out again with impunity.

**(2) **Every bit as appalling and mangled as the French learnt by British soldiers in two world wars, or that used by Nanny Ogg whilst abroad.

**(3) **Yes, I know That wonderful piece of pre-_**Midsomer Murders**_ hokum, _**Bergerac,**_ is currently being repeated on TV. Jim Bergerac (John Nettles, who later moved to police Midsomer, an English county with a murder rate ten times higher than New York) is a dedicated policeman in the Channel Island of Jersey, link-man to French police on the mainland, and aware the _real_ crooks in the off-shore tax haven cannot be touched as they take very good care to ensure their crimes remain legal. He too has a detached wife who cannot come to terms with the fact he is a copper to his core and she will always be his second love, after policing.

**(4) **After experimentation and close observation, Ponder Stibbons had devised the Rincewind Scale for assessing the degree of danger and peril inherent inherent in any magically risky environment. This went from zero - a completely boring and risk-free environment – through eight – Rincewind makes an escape by fastest possible means – to Ten – Rincewind makes it into the next country, or indeed continent, from the source of imminent catastrophe, death, or destruction. Wizards were adopting it as a reliable indicator of risk.

**(5) **Have you ever seen a South African trying to be discreet? Doesn't work.

**(6) **A care package assembled to meet the bespoke needs of the recipient really does take care of a situation. In the old South Africa, a _care package_ was a black-humour idiom for a letterbomb delivered in the post. Generally handcrafted with care and devotion by the state Assassins of the Bureau of State Security. Johanna has used this gambit to pull off at least one contracted inhumation. Two, if you counted the little incident at Home that drew her to Assassins' Guild attention in the first place.

**(7) **Arachne Webber was a student Assassin whose knowledge of spiders was so specialised and in-depth that she even ended up teaching Johanna. (See my story _**There's Nothing like A New Pair of Eyes...) **_In the canon, her specialised knowledge as a graduate Assassin led to Dark Clerk status and a lucrative contract from Vetinari. (_**Snuff). **_

**(8) **See my fiction_** Doppelgangers. **_This may be listed as a Discworld/Good Omens crossover, as Crowley and Aziraphile have cameo appearances. In which Rincewind again merges with his Roundworld alter ego Rjinswand at a place called Three Mile Island, and for just a few vital seconds, the fate of the Earth is in the trembling hands of a Wizzard who knows nothing about nuclear power.

**(9) **Unofficially, South Africa, like its ally and co-researcher Israel, is a nuclear power. Just before the end of apartheid, there was an unexplained explosion in the south Atlantic, a couple of thousand miles away from the nearest landfall in South Africa. This suggested to the suspicious that a ship containing an unattributed atom bomb had been towed out and detonated. (There had been a lot of South African naval activity in the area, and satellite pictures compared after the event suggested six ships had left Simonstown but only five had returned.) It is interesting to speculate if a real-life Johanna might have been involved.

**(10) **Such as the United States collectively felt against Japan in the summer of 1945.

**(11) **The Abbot explicitly says this in _**Thief of Time.**_To go to TP[s other fiction, although it is never formally explained or described as such, where do you think Johnny Maxwell learns to slice time, after Mrs Tachyon takes him back to wartime Britain? The History Monks also have a clear need to run her to ground before she busts more timelines up...


	51. the Four Winds Bar

_**Slipping Between Worlds Chapter Fifty-One: **_

_**In Another World**_

_**I know - a long time coming. But to compensate, it's an extra-long one. Enjoy. **_

_This chapter opens with an almost wholly indulgent homage to a Blue Öyster Cult song. The mysterious, much-covered, and evocative "Astronomy", a ballad with impenetrable lyrics succeeding in conveying a sense of regret and loss and of it being _**TOO LATE**_. Much ink has been spent trying to explain the story that goes with the lyrics. I'll spare you this except to say the location for the story is perfect for my purpose._

There is a tavern much like this at every nexus point of the Multiverse, where worlds and universes intersect and travellers may voyage between the planes of reality at will, or by accident, or at the whim of the Gods. Sometimes called Journey's End, The Last Homely House, the Halfway House, the Crooked House, The World's End (_a free house_), The House of Secrets, the Mystery House or some other name implying it is not all it seems to be, this particular manifestation stands underneath strange stars in a black sky, surrounded by barren crusted black sand on the littoral of a black sea. Incessant winds sough overhead in an unquiet clear sky. **(1) **The sort of sky that reminds you that you are looking into eternity. And at least here, it isn't eau-de-nil. It's black, matey. Live with it. Or perhaps not...

Externally, it takes the deceptive form of one of those clapperboarded old taverns you only see in small old towns on the eastern seaboard of North America, maybe in Nantucket or Ann Arbor or quaint little fishing villages in Maine. Or, perhaps, Arkham, Mass. H.P. Lovecraft would feel at home here, sitting over a small beer at a corner table, and plotting something of which Man should wot not. It's that sort of inn. A swinging pub sign, never still in the ever-present and changing gusts, shows the eight arrows of a compass rose, four greater and four lesser, radiating from a central point. The name below reads

_The Four Winds Bar._

Four doors lead you in. Once inside, you may order a drink and take your ease. Unlike some other mystery taverns on the Edge, you are not required to tell a story to pay for your drink. It's not that sort of tavern. The sort of people who find their way here are varied and tend to value their privacy.

Two such are seated at a table by the window, alternatively people-watching and discussing their business as professional equals. They might be viewed as franchisees who have just come from a meeting with the organisation's CEO and are unwinding afterwards.

The two black-clad and cowled figures sat impassively at the table watching the clientele. The rest of the drinkers in the bar appeared to be giving them a wide berth, even the albino in black armour with a black sword strapped to his back, his milk-white hair incongruous against the ornate enamelled breastplate. He looks lost in melancholy, although the smaller man in what looks like fools' multicolour motley is cheerful enough for both. He is carrying two wickedly curved swords, and is negotiating with the landlord about passage on something called the Black Ship. **(2)** Elsewhere, a naïve looking young girl of about seventeen, in Edwardian dress, is sitting with an older woman in nurses' costume. A wild-eyed manic looking man has joined them and is declaiming something about the star Sirius being fixed and consequent. **(3)**

OH, HIM? Said one of the black-cowled figures. CALLS HIMSELF DESDINOVA. THINKS HE'S IMMORTAL. WE WILL SEE.

He took a sip of what will turn out to be a Malibu and coke. He added, reflectively

THE COVE IN THE BLACK ARMOUR IS A FICTIONAL CHARACTER. A WARRIOR AND A WIZARD CURSED WITH A GREAT DOOM, BY ALL ACCOUNTS. FICTION BECOMES REAL HERE. AND SONGS. IT'S HARD TO TELL THE DIFFERENCE.

SO I PERCEIVE. said the other cowled figure. He is drinking Tia Maria.

The Death of the Discworld looked levelly into the eye-sockets of the Death of Roundworld. After a meeting with Azrael, they had elected to have a quiet drink together in an atmospheric bar somewhere. Roundworld Death had said he knew a good place in a dimension not far away. Working in parellel worlds as they did, the two Deaths were psychically linked. Doppelgangers, even. They usually met up in a neutral place when they had matters of joint interest to discuss.

THOSE BLOODY WIZARDS HAVE GOT A LOT TO ANSWER FOR. THEY'RE THE BANE OF MY L... EXISTENCE.

The Roundworld Death was not unsympathetic.

THEY CALLED ME INTO EXISTENCE WHEN THEY CREATED LIFE ON THAT PLANET. AS A MIRROR OF YOU, MORT.

The Discworld's Death shrugged.

WHERE THERE IS LIFE, THERE MUST BE A DEATH.

THERE IS NO JUSTICE.

NO, THERE'S JUST US.

Each Death took a sip of his drink. Both had a morbid fascination – it could hardly be called anything else – with the more disgusting, sickly, distilled concoctions.

WHO IN HIS RIGHT MIND THOUGHT THEY COULD EVER DISTIL CHOCOLATE BEANS? OR COCONUT?

HUMANS, MORT. THEY LIVE SHORT LIVES BUT THEY ARE INCREDIBLY INGENIOUS. LIKE YOUR DISCWORLD WIZARDS.

The Roundworld Death paused.

AND I HAVE TO SAY, ALL THEIR WINDING AND RE-WINDING ALTERNATE TIMELINES FOR ROUNDWORLD PLAYS HAVOC WITH MY NODES AND NEXUSES. NEXII. OR WHATEVER. THE OITHER WEEK, FOR INSTANCE. I'M ANSWERING THE DUTY CALL TO PICK UP A CERTAIN PHILIP HOLTACK, WHO DIED IN CROSSFIRE IN LONDONDERRY. THEN THEY WIND THE TIMELINE BACK AND START AGAIN. BUT DO THEY TELL ME? OH NO. I FIND MYSELF STANDING OUTSIDE A POST OFFICE IN LONDONDERRY WITH A HANDFUL OF HOURGLASSES AND A SCYTHE – AND NOBODY THERE. IF I WAS NOT IMMORTAL I WOULD CALL IT A WASTE OF MY TIME! AND A WEEK OR TWO LATER, I EXPERIENCE A SENSE OF DEJA-VU CONCERNING A GREAT BIG BOMB EXPLOSION IN LONDONDERRY. PHILIP HOLTACK _AGAIN_ AND SEVEN OTHERS. THIS TIME I DISCOVER THE BOMB HAS INDEED EXPLODED ON SCHEDULE, BUT ARE THERE ANY CONFUSED-LOOKING SOULS TO GATHER IN? ARE THERE BUGGERY. AT FIRST I PUT IT DOWN TO THE SMOKE AND DUST MAKING IT HARD TO SEE. THEN I REALISED IT'S ALL COCKED UP AGAIN. SOME SORT OF RIFT IN SPACE-TIME OCCURED TO PROJECT THEM INTO YOUR WORLD A MERE MILLISECOND BEFORE THE INSTANT OF DEATH. MORT, I'M AFRAID YOU'VE GOT MY SOULS.

The Discworld Death was used to this sort of thing. Wizards, witches and History Monks did it to him all the time, with no consideration or respect. He'd learnt to work around it.

AND THEIR BODIES, I BELIEVE. AND THE TWO ARE AT THE MOMENT FIRMLY LINKED.

The Roundworld Death conceded this.

WHICH, MORT, IS WHY YOU CAME TO AZRAEL TO FORMALLY ADVISE HIM OF AN UNPRECEDENTED SITUATION AND TO ASK FOR HIS RULING. HE SUMMONED ME SO I MIGHT BE BRIEFED. AND HERE WE ARE NOW.

The Discworld Death laughed, sepulchrally.

LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE. IT DIDN'T HALF ANNOY THE AUDITORS!

THERE ARE _SOME _CONSOLATIONS. agreed the Roundworld's Death.

WHO'S COVERING YOUR DUTY WHILE YOU'RE HERE?

IT'S IN VERY SAFE HANDS. Said the Discworld Death. SUSAN IS DEPUTISING. SHE HAD A VERY UNIQUE ONE TO COLLECT, BUT I HAVE EVERY CONFIDENCE IN HER.

The Roundworld Death digested this. Susan Sto Helit was yet to be formally accredited with Azrael. But word of her reputation had got out on a very specialised professional grapevine. And Azrael Himself seemed happy enough with the arrangement.

YOU'RE LUCKY. Said the Roundworld Death. THE ONLY DEMIURGE AVAILABLE WAS SCROFULA. I HOPE HE'S UP TO IT.

SCROFULA? I HOPE YOURS SHAPES UP BETTER THAN MINE DID. HE WAS FRANKLY A DISSAPPOINTMENT. THEN AGAIN, I _DID_ SEND HIM OUT AFTER RINCEWIND.

The same very specialised professional grapevine had also heard about Rincewind. Most of the other assembled Deaths in conclave before Azrael were sympathetic, whilst privately hoping they'd never see one themselves.

AND NOW YOU ALSO HAVE PHILIP HOLTACK. said the Roundworld Death. WHO HAS SO FAR EVADED ME TWICE. AND YOU ALSO GET MRS NORAH BLOODY TACHYON. GOOD LUCK.

Discworld's Death winced.

AT LEAST AZRAEL WAS VERY CLEAR. AS LONG AS THEY ARE IN MY JURISDICTION, AND THE CIRCUMSTANCES WARRANT MY ATTENTION, THEN I CAN REAP. I THEN OWE YOU BETWEEN ONE AND EIGHT SOULS. UP TO SEVENTEEN, IF YOU COUNT HER CAT.

NO DOUBT THE WIZARDS WILL SEND MORE OF YOUR PEOPLE TO ME. WE HAVE TO PLAY THE LONG GAME, MORT.

AGREED.

The two Deaths clasped bony hands. There was a complete absence of catastrophic explosion, as some narratives might have dictated.

BUT YOUR PEOPLE HAD BETTER GET CRACKING ON SENDING THEM BACK. the Roundworld Death said. MY WORLD IS A BUGGER FOR INSTABILITY. AND ALL THESE ALTERNATIVE TIMELINES FLOATING ABOUT AND LEAVING HUMANS IN THE WINDS OF LIMBO DON'T HELP. THIS IS THE NEXUS OF A CRISIS. AND THE ORIGIN OF A TRANS-TEMPORAL STORM. I'M FRANKLY ENJOYING IT TOO MUCH TO WANT TO BE SENT INTO OBLIVION. AND I KNOW A COUPLE OF DEMONS AND ANGELS WHO THINK THAT WAY TOO. AS WELL AS MY THREE ASSOCIATES. BELIEVE ME, WHEN WAR GETS ANGRY, SHE'S SCAREY!

The Discworld Death had once, reluctantly, had to imprison the Roundworld's War. **(4)** He sympathised.

WELL, THIS PHILIP HOLTACK IS A WARRIOR, ISN'T HE? YOU COULD JUST ASK MS. ZUIGIBER TO PAY HIM A PERSONAL CALL. HER AREA OF PROFESSIONAL EXPERTISE, AFTER ALL. PROBLEM SOLVED!

Behind them, the nurse, a brisk woman in her thirties called Carrie, was suggesting to her charge that perhaps, Suzie dear, we could take a little walk along the beach, we have _matters_ to discuss. She meaningfully added that it was _so_ nice to meet you, mr Desdinova, you _will_ of course excuse us?

The Roundworld Death turned to watch them.

AND I'M NOT GOING DOWN WITHOUT TAKING THAT COCKY LITTLE SOD DESDINOVA WITH ME. IMMORTAL, MY COCCYX!

* * *

The Alien Queen briefly snapped back into consciousness in a chillingly cold place. The magical field gone, she remembered only the cold implacable mammalian female, an older female of beyond egg-laying years, the one whom she had recognised as something approaching a worthy enemy, who had divined what could kill her. Then being imprisoned by chilling water-ice and the threat of the deadly poison beyond it, that would at least have scarred and maimed her as she escaped the confines of her prison. And then... nothing. Until now. Where was she? No atmosphere? Well, she did not need to breathe; she could hibernate until the time was right.

There was a blinding actinic flash and a sensation of rending... she would have screamed, but in space nobody can hear you scream.

She felt light, insubstantial. She had leisure to realise the mammals had somehow thrown her off the planet. She could sense an enormous body, all its life-energy, all its _food_, receding from her at immense speed. And then, standing impassively in front of her... one of those lesser mammals the human mammals used as riding beasts, white, glowing, almost silver in the sun and starlight. White, shining, silver, studded leather, with its nose in... a nosebag? **(5)**

The horse stood unsupported in deep space, unconcernedly eating, as the mammal female unhurriedly climbed from its back and walked towards her. Dressed in black, with white hair streaming like a horse's silver mane streaked with black. Incredibly, she could hear the ticking of her heels as if she were walking on stone flags. The mammal female swept a stick as she walked. Something unfolded from the end like a branch of cold flame. Cold blue flame. It rippled with light, in a chilly, ripply, sort of way.

The Queen tried to spit a stream of acid at her. It boiled and roiled and flashed into vapour. The mammal female walked unconcernedly through the insubstantial mist.

"Who are you?" the Alien Queen screamed. The mammal took her time in responding.

"I'm the one who's going to complete the job. Of sending you the _Seamstresses' Guild commercial transaction_ out into space." Susan Sto Helit said, conversationally. And then, in the Voice, "YOU BELONG DEAD".

The scythe swung.

The Queen screamed once and then passed into nothing. _I go into the accumulated wisdom of all my mothers..._

Susan stood and looked down towards the Disc, now a receding shape no smaller than the back of her hand. Glowing meteorites, remnants of the Queen's prison and the floor on which it had stood, were cascading down towards the distant Disc.

"Grandfather, you send me on some _really_ interesting assignments." she said to herself, taking in the spectacular view. Then she called Binky to her. Something tugged at her, irresistibly. She heard chanting on the very edge of hearing...

_Oh damn, not NOW. Can't you let me enjoy the view for a while? _

Meanwhile, in the parched desert sand of Kahn-Li, something stirred and scrabbled at the sand...

* * *

"We'll just do a quick Rite of Ash-Kente, m'lord". Mustrum Ridcully said to the Patrician. "Nothing like getting final confirmation from the man himself, what?"

"Proceed." Vetinari said.

As Rincewind was threatened, cajoled and finally manhandled into the octagram to make up the numbers, the assembled company in the Zoo laboratories saw...

A girl on a white horse materialised in the middle of a chanting circle of eight Wizards. She glared at them. Ponder Stibbons had been here before, and tried to avoid her glare.

"You could have _waited_." she said, scowling at Ridcully. "This is like the last couple of times. Why don't you just send me a clacks, for goodness sake? You've got my address, Mr Ridcully!"

"_You _are Death?" Lord Rust brayed. "You're that Sto Helit gal, aren't you!"

The girl dismounted and said, with seeming deference,

"I am Susan, Duchess of Sto Helit, yes."

She stood, with a studied sort of casualness. Then the Scythe of Duty was in her hand.

LORD RONALD AUGUSTUS ALEXANDER RUST? YOU WOULD DO WELL TO RECALL THE STO HELIT FAMILY MOTTO! ONLY – HOLD THE "NON".

Rust blinked. He backed down.

"Point taken, my Lady." he said, more politely. Susan nodded. Most of the people in the room had stopped dead at the harmonics of the Voice. She turned to a familiar face or two and was Susan again.

"Hi, Johanna!" she said, in her normal voice. "You wouldn't have seen me, but I was there at a contract you carried out recently. I was quite impressed with the way you and Ruth took out that vampire!"

Johanna Smith-Rhodes smiled at the professional compliment. She knew Susan: they went to the same hairdresser, after all.

"I take it the usual fella's otherwise engaged, m'dear?" Ridcully said, conversationally. "You're fillin' in again?"

"He was called to see the Management." Susan said, shrugging. "There's a bit of a trans-dimensional irregularity going on at the moment. You've had people arriving here from a different jurisdiction who might well already be dead in their own world. Grandfather needed a ruling on whether they were still technically alive, and if so, were they temporarily under his care if the occasion ever arises."

"And are they?" Vetinari asked, seeing the point immediately.

"It was decided that they are, sir." Susan explained, the information somehow arriving in her mind without her needing to guess or assume. This was under the Rite of Ashe-Kente, after all, when Death or his accredited representative had to honestly and fully answer every question asked. "After all, you can't have seven or eight people running around who are technically Immortal. They might take advantage."

"Indeed." Vetinari said, drily. Somebody else, who was slow to catch on, made a connection and said _"Grandfather?"_

Susan turned to face the speaker.

"My grandfather is something of a literal-minded m... _entity. _ Think of me as the result of his hearing about _Take Your Daughters To Work Day. _I get to cover the Duty when he's otherwise engaged."

"Ah." somebody else said. "Family business."

"Equal opportunities." Mrs Rosie Palm said, approving. Her occupation was not risk-free, by any means, but it rarely involved the possibility of death to Guild members. She could afford to be more relaxed about it.

Vetinari prompted Ridcully with a raised eyebrow. The Arch-Chancellor got the point.

"Anyway, m'dear." Ridcully said. "What can you tell us concernin' a rather nasty entity we sent your way just now?"

Susan looked across at an octagonal hole in the floor. She remembered to adopt the Voice, as it made these things easier.

"THE ALIEN QUEEN? SHE IS NOW VERY DEFINITELY DECEASED. I SHOULD KNOW. A COMBINATION OF WIZARDS, HISTORY MONKS AND ASSASSINS BROUGHT ABOUT HER END."

"Is there any possibility at all that she will come back?" Vetinari requested, politely. Susan considered this and allowed the reply to form in her mind.

"NO. THIS QUEEN IS VERY DEFINITIVELY DEAD. BUT SHE HAS SISTERS. THEY HAVE A COLLECTIVE CONSCIOUSNESS AND OTHER POTENTIAL QUEENS EXIST ON THE DISC. HER THOUGHTS AND MEMORIES HAVE RETURNED TO THE COLLECTIVE. IT IS INEVITABLE THAT ONE WILL RETURN IN A STRONGER AND MORE MUTATED FORM."

Vetinari reflected on this.

"Do you know when?" he asked. "We should be prepared."

Susan shrugged.

"TOMORROW? NOT LIKELY. THIS LIFE-FORM REQUIRES TIME TO REST AND BUILD STRENGTH. IT ALSO REQUIRES A TRIGGER TO ACTIVATE IT. THE TRIGGER FOR THIS ONE WAS THE TRANS-DIMENSIONAL DISTURBANCE ALLOWING FOR PEOPLE AND IDEAS TO CROSS FROM ROUNDWORLD. I CANNOT TELL WHEN THE NEXT SUCH TRIGGER WILL BE PRESSED. BUT IT IS ADVISABLE FOR YOU TO WATCH KAHN-LI."

Vetinari looked thoughtful.

"It may be advisable to prepare an exploratory mission. If anyone has suggestions for such an expedition, please discuss them with me. I will be listening. No great rush."

He did not add _this will be an opportunity to resolve other pressing problems by removing some people from the city and making them inaccessible. The Visitor Ruijterman, for example. I cannot, for very much longer, reasonably delay the Rimwards Howondalandians' reasonable request to speak to him. But if he gives them the secret of the Gonne..._

Ponder Stibbons diffidently raised a hand. Involvement with Johanna had taken away some of his natural reticence around strong women. He reminded himself that Susan Sto Helit was _mainly_ human, and a variation of his strategy for Dealing With Johanna should work here.

"Errr... your Grace." he began, with reticence. Susan turned towards him.

"Professor Stibbons?" she said, in her normal Susan-voice. Ponder took a breath.

"Our Visitors. From Roundworld. What can you tell us about them?"

"TO WHAT LEVEL OF DETAIL? PHILIP HOLTACK IS FIVE FEET NINE INCHES TALL. HE HAS BROWN EYES. HE IS APPROACHING HIS TWENTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY. HE HAS ALREADY TECHNICALLY DIED ONCE ON ROUNDWORLD. MUCH TO THE OPERATIONAL CONFUSION OF THE DEATH OF THE ROUNDWORLD, WHO ARRIVED AT THE SCENE OF A BATTLE EXPECTING TO CLAIM THREE SOULS BUT INSTEAD FOUND NOTHING THERE, YOU WIZARDS REALISED THERE HAD BEEN AN ACT OF GROSS IRRESPONSIBILITY AND REVERSED THE TIMELINE."

She paused, and added, sternly,

"YOU REALLY HAVE NO IDEA HOW WE DEATHS HATE THAT SORT OF THING. IT CREATES UN-NECESSARY WORK."

"We _Deaths_?" somebody exclaimed, incredulously. Susan glared at the hapless speaker, who turned out to be a more elderly Wizard. He recoiled, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

"EVERY WORLD HAS ITS DEATH, DOCTOR EDWARD JAMES STICKLEBURY." she told him. "WE ARE NOT ALONE. THIS IS WHY MY GRANDFATHER ISN'T HERE. HE WENT TO CONFER WITH PROFESSIONAL EQUALS ABOUT THIS."

"But Lieutenant Holtack is alive and well and currently thriving." Vetinari said. "I have high expectations of him. He is a singular young man."

Susan shrugged.

"FOR NOW." she said. "NOTHING IS FIXED, BUT INDICATIONS ARE THAT HE WILL BE IN DIFFICULT SITUATIONS DURING HIS TIME HERE. THESE WILL REQUIRE MONITORING."

"Was he aware that he was killed on the Roundworld?" Vetinari asked. "Or at least on that particular Roundworld timeline?"

"HE WILL HAVE HAD CONFUSED MEMORIES OF A DEATH THAT DID NOT HAPPEN." she said. "HE WILL HAVE REMEMBERED IT IN THE FORM OF A BAD DREAM, A NIGHTMARE. BUT THE SECOND NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCE, THE ONE THAT PROPELLED HIM AND THE OTHERS HERE, IS A CONSCIOUS MEMORY."

"What caused it?" asked Stibbons. "Can it be reversed? Can we send them back?"

" I WOULD SUGGEST THE TWO EXPLOSIONS WERE LINKED. AS TO WHETHER WE CAN SEND THEM BACK AND REGULARISE THE SITUATION, THE NODES ARE UNCLEAR ON THIS POINT. THERE ARE TWO KEYS: THE ELUSIVE MRS NORAH TACHYON. AND HER TROLLEY, WHICH IS NOT ALL IT SEEMS. FIND THEM AND YOU _MAY_ RESOLVE THE PROBLEM."

And in her everyday schoolmistress voice, Susan added

"If that's everything, may I leave now? Unless Grandfather can get a lift home, he's rather stranded until he gets the horse back. And I've got a job to go to."

"Thank you, your grace. You have been most helpful." Vetinari said. "Arch-Chancellor, will you do what you have to do?"

"Of course, sir. Susan m'dear, if I call you a "foul fiend", just for the look of the thing, you understand, please accept it isn't personal?"

"I'll take it as read, Mr Ridcully." she replied, as he scuffed away part of the otherwise imprisoning octogram.

"How the devil are you going to get that horse out of here... oh, you _can.._." said Lord Rust.

And so Susan left.

* * *

Across the city, Philip Holtack shuddered. It wasn't just because of where he was and what he was doing, which was horrible enough to contemplate. He'd just had a very distinct feeling that somebody was walking over his grave. A memory of that bad dream, of being shot just outside the post office in Derry, surfaced. It had just been so bloody _vivid_... He put it down to tiredness and aftershock following the events of the last few days. He'd largely been moving so fast and absorbing so much new information about this place that he hadn't really had time to reflect and be introspective. But now, as he listened to Doreen Winking with half an ear, the reaction and post-combat stress was probably starting. He'd been shot at, blown up, landed in a strange new world an unguessable distance away from home, fought for his life, killed two people, had a terrifying flight on a bloody magic carpet, evaded a death sentence, and been shagged by a vampire. Of _course_ there'd be a reaction...

He looked down at the handbook he'd been given. The foreword noted that it was a standard text, issued to City Watch recruits, concerning the wide variety of non-human species and otherwise alternative life-forms to be found on the Disc. It was quite a thick book. The publishers' notes on the inside noted it was a private publication sponsored by the Duke of Ankh, Sir Samuel Vimes, for internal use by the Watch. Out of interest Holtack flicked to "D". The section on Dwarfs did not look as if it had been written by Estrella Partleigh. She had issued them with a separate pamphlet. Comparing the two, Holtack found points of factual similarity, but found it hard to believe they described the same race.

_And you also met some very nice girls and ladies, Phil, so it's not been wholly horrible, _he reminded himself. _Even if, apart from Lady Sybil, they're all predatory vampires and trained killers. And I bet Lady Sybil could be deadly if provoked. _

_And speaking of vampires..._

Doreen Winking had made her way to the speaker's position at the front of the room, on a low, rather perfunctory, stage. She had probably intended it to be an eye-catching smooth sinuous glide, but with a body like hers it was doomed to failure. It had been like watching a duck in the mating season self-consciously trying to attract the attention of watching mallards.

"_Bloody'yell!" _an incredulous Welsh voice had murmured. Without looking round, Holtack had recognised "Head-Butt" Powell expressing mortal disbelief. He also heard a native Ankh-Morpork voice urgently whispering _"for Offler's sake, don't laugh! She takes it personally!" _

_Good advice. She's still a vampire. Perhaps only just. But Sally said she was relatively young and didn't have the skills and strength of some of the older ones. Sally was handful enough..._

Holtack looked again at the Countess von Vinkling.

_Several handfuls, in her case. And you'd need more than two hands. Working in shifts._

He still could not get over the visual impression that he was looking at an older Morticia Addams who'd been repeatedly hit over the head. She'd also allowed the vampire equivalent of middle-aged spread to set in. And could vampires develop visible grey roots? Holtack thought there was no reason why not. But still...

"Gut afternoon!" she announced. "I hope zat ve are all refreshed after lunch."

Lunch had been a few tired sandwiches and a mug of tea, served with homilies by the Salvation Army. Young Boy Hughes had attempted flirting with one of the Salvation girls, who had responded favourably, but made it clear she'd quite like him to attend Octeday services at the Citadel, so as to best hear the holy and infallible gospel of Om. The other Toms had thought this was a huge joke and had mercilessly teased him about catching religion.

"They do that on Earth too, mun." J.J. Williams had remarked. "You get to chatting with a pretty girl, next thing you know she's inviting you to Chapel to meet her pastor!"

Even Sergeant Williams had joined in with "Why not try the Druids, Boy bach? I met one of their padres the other day and attended their service. Quite an eye-opener, it was!"

"What a man will do for the sniff of _cwtch_."**(6)** Head-Butt Powell had said, reflectively. "Even if you have to pretend to get religion for it."

"Or vampires." Boer Ruijterman had mused, with a sideways look at Holtack.

And now they were getting a Lecture From The Vampire.

"Mein name.." she said, pausing for dramatic effect, "is ze Countess Von Vinkling. As you can see, I am a _wampire_."

"No kidding?" an incredulous Seven Platoon voice said. She glared furiously in its general direction.

Holtack watched her. He was puzzled. She lacked the unconscious ease and self-assurance which defined Sally von Humpedinck. There was none of Sally's grace and poise. This particular Wampire... _vampire_... appeared to be making a tremendous conscious effort to project it, and was failing dismally on all counts.

It really didn't help that her pointed fangs were a bit wobbly in her mouth, as if they were some sort of false teeth. Holtack was reminded of Great-Uncle Iollo, whose ill-fitting false teeth were a family legend...

"I am a _Wampire_." she repeated, pausing for dramatic effect. "I am vun of zer oldest and most noble species on this Disc. Ve are a stylish und a cultured people whose written records go back further than... _zan.._. _humans_. Ve vere writink our history from before primitive _humans_ learnt to scrawl graffiti on cave walls... _valls._.. yes, you have a question?"

Head-Butt Powell had raised a hand.

"Excuse me, ma'am." he said, with the innocent air of a Seeker after Truth. Instructing officers and NCO's had learnt to dread that tone of voice.

"It's quite sunny outside, like. It's daylight. Are you not supposed to retreat to your crypt, like, during the day?"

"Ah!" she said. "A common misperception. It is true, _ja,_ that ve wampires are at our best in the..._zer.._. hours of darkness. Ve are creatures of midnight and shadow. My coffin awaits..._avaits_... in zer family crypt."

The native Morporkian sitting next to Holtack rolled his eyes and nudged him in the ribs.

"She means the cellar underneath the fruit and veg shop." he whispered.

Holtack nodded. He was beginning to realise this vampire was not all she seemed. Her German accent kept slipping, for one thing.

"Those young in the Way..._Vay_... are often seriously inconvenienced by zer light of day, it is true. But with age comes immunity. Ve can walk..._valk_... in day without hindrance if it is cloudy or overcast. Zere are vays und means to deal with summer days, zat come with experience."

"_Yeah. Suntan lotion and barrier cream." _somebody whispered. There was a muted snigger, quickly shushed. The Countess von Winkling frowned.

"There are such remedies, _ja._" she said. "But ve know from practical experiments carried out by zer Count de Magpyr und his clan that...zat.. many learnt und conditioned reflexes can be overcome, vit training and reconditioning."

Sally had mentioned this, in passing. She'd given a clear hint that the de Magpyrs were thought of as a bit of an embarrassment in vampire circles and had caused a lot of trouble for everyone else. He raised a hand.

"Prozeed." she said, in the accent he was now almost sure she was putting on. It sounded too calculated, too exaggerated, when it wasn't slipping.

"Er... Countess... I was informed by Lord Vetinari that there are well over three thousand different religions on this world. Three thousand or more Gods, all of whom must have their own holy symbols. On my world, folklore has it that vampires are terrified by the sight of the holy symbol of one religion, and even seeing this causes them pain." _Well, two religions, _he thought, remembering the Jewish vampire he'd once seen in a comedy movie. Confronted with a cross, it had grinned and said _Oi vey, have you got the wrong vampire! _before going for the jugular. But a Star of David had made it cringe back and shield its face...

"If holy symbols repel vampires, how do you cope with three thousand different sorts? There are whole streets here full of temples and churches. And that tortoise thing on the wall seems holy to this church."

The Countess allowed a nervous tic to cross her face.

"Zer most holy turtle of Om, ja." she conceded, gritting her teeth. "Now you have brought it to my attention, could somebody cover it up? Please? Zank you." She paused.

"Zer trick is, not to notice. And no, vampires do not normally valk down zer Street of Small Gods. It saves trouble. I vill concede that the Count de Magpyr went a little too far on this. He succeeded in training his clan to recognise holy symbols zat they had previously been unaware of. Zere are still traumatised wampires out zere who refuse to leave their crypts, as unfortunately zer Count taught zem only too vell. A vampire trained to recognise patterns and see a holy symbol everyvere they look... is not a happy vampire. Fortunately, zer League of Temperance runs counselling classes for zer sacrophobiacs."

Holtack thought furiously. He'd have to ask Sally. Was it the case that the receptive gullibility of the vampire, combined with the belief of the would-be victim in the efficacy of their holy symbol, brought about an aversion reaction? So the Cross would work here, as if both parties were playing out a script and doing what was expected of them? He filed this away for attention later, and allowed Boy Hughes to fire a question. He watched her flinch – her reaction delayed by a second or so – at Hughes' casual use of the world "blood". As if she remembered she had to flinch, as if it were expected of her.

"Please. Do not use that word...vord." she said. "We of the League of Temperance have a strict policy on that. Will you all kindly refer to _"b-vord"_? Zank you so much."

Holtack winced, then grinned. She'd said _that_ to Seven Platoon? Ah well... she'd learn.

"In response to your question, vampires do require b... _b-vord_... for sustenance. In former unreformed days, it is sadly true that ve consumed the bl... the flowing fluid... of humans, villing or not. But ve have moved on since! Now, zere is der Leek of Temperance!"

She proudly proclaimed this. Holtack listened with half an ear. Sally had already filled him in on the League of Temperance and the significance of the black ribbon. He now also knew that the rich red liquid she had drunk in the taverna was not likely to have been wine.

"So how do you get the blood you need, then, ma'am?" Powell asked. He waited long enough to see her wince and then added "Oh, sorry. I meant _bee-voord._ My slip!"

_Here it comes_, Holtack thought. _Dumb insolence at its finest, calculated to be one step short of a chargeable offence... _He leant back, happy in the knowledge some other poor unprepared soul was in the firing line. That is, if vampires actually _had _souls.

Dorienne von Vinkling, (or was it Doreen Winkling?) composed herself. She took a deep breath.

"There is _animal_ b-vord." she said. Many of us work..._vork._.. in zer slaughterhouses and kosher butchers. Zis meets zer need."

J.J. Williams raised a hand. She nodded, suspiciously.

"But ma'am, getting your _blood_..." again, the pause to watch her wince, and a nervous tic began. "Sorry, your _bee-vord _that way."

Holtack glanced over. Yes. The look of an innocent seeker-after-truth that he'd learnt to dread. He relaxed and felt a distinct sense of _schadenfreude._ Let the lady learn...

Doreen looked at Williams with a slightly apprehensive expression. He paused for a second or two and asked:

"But, ma'am. Isn't that substituting cruelty to animals for cruelty to people, like?"

She took a deeper breath. Things visibly _wobbled_ in the confining bustier, an item of clothing that would have looked sensational on a vampire thirty years younger, six inches taller and about thirty pounds lighter. On Doreen, it reminded onlookers of a jelly mould with insufficient gelatine in the mix.

"That is a point of view, ja." she said, her eyes darting from side to side. "But I'm sure on your world, animals are slaughtered – humanely I'm sure – for zeir meat und for leather to wear.. _vear_? We wampires merely assist in zer process and take advantage of a by-product largely useless to humans."

"But isn't that depriving people of the raw material for black puddings, ma'am?" asked Boy Hughes. "lovely bit of scran, those!"

Head-Butt Powell threw a curve-ball in.

"Ma'am, if there are kosher butchers on this world, right, does that mean there are _Jews_ here?" he asked. "I would not be surprised, they get everywhere, we even had a couple of them in Seven Platoon! Lovely boys both, Tailor Cohen could schmatter a uniform a treat, it was like having a Savile Row tailor do your walking-out kit bespoke, like, great job for a tenner. Kosher Greenberg could be a bastard corporal, though."

Holtack thought for a moment about Greenberg and Cohen. He wondered how they were doing back on Earth. And the rest of Seven Platoon, who he realised, with a guilty start, had lost their officer and – he suspected more importantly – their platoon sergeant. He hoped his successor wouldn't balls things up _too_ much, until he got back...

Doreen looked genuinely puzzled. He stepped in, partly to give her a moment's grace from the innocent questioning. Besides, if there were French, German, South African and Australian people on this planet as well as "Welsh", he would not be surprised if there were Israeli and Hebrew Discworlders.

"Countess? My soldiers are referring to a religious and, er, _ethnic,_ group on Earth. They live according to religious traditions that go back thousands of years, by historical accident they were scattered all over the world, their religion is defined by worship of one God who lays down a strict code of behaviour and worship, they do not seek converts, marry within the race, and insist all meat products be completely emptied of blood before consumption..." he tried to recall everything else he knew about Jews. "They have a strict dietary code where certain meats, such as pork and shellfish, are regarded as unclean and may not be eaten, and other prohibitions such as not having meat and dairy produce together on the same table..." He'd had an informal crash-course in What You Need To Know About Judaism on acquiring two Jewish members of the platoon. It had been useful.

"_They are also bloody sharp with money and tend to become doctors and lawyers", _he heard a Seven Platoon voice mutter.

The Countess suddenly understood. "You may mean zer Cenobians.**(7)**" she said. "They fit the description. Zey have a temple – a _synagogue_, they call it – on Small Gods."

Holtack remembered the legend of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel**(8)**, and wondered. Had there been _other _crossings to the Discworld in the past? He'd have to find out...

"But time presses. We must move on... another question?"

"Medam, it is said a vempire may be killed by direct sunlight, by a stake through the heart, by gerlic or by silver. I understend your point ebout berrier creams, very ingenious, but do the other things hold force here?"

Ruijterman.

Doreen winced slightly.

"Yes. All those things work. There are many other ways too, depending on the place of origin of the vampire..."

Ruijterman nodded. It was clear Doreen was not comfortable about talking of the ways vampires could be despatched. Seven Platoon latched on this instantly.

"Wooden stake through the heart, Hughsey boy." said Powell, with relish.

"Get it in its coffin during the day, line up the stake over the heart, and _wham!_ No more vampire!"

"I was thinking, a bayonet would do it? We are taught that in Battle School. Transferable skill, and all that!" added Williams.

"Then you just gets a pile of dust. You has to be careful not to _bleed_ into it, though, or you're back to square one!" Powell gleefully added.

"Well, yes. But to be _really_ sure, you has to cut its head off..." added Hughes, thoughtfully.

Doreen von Winkling's face was phasing through a lot of expressions, none of them happy or relaxed.

"_In this modern enlightened age._.." she almost shouted, "Vampires and humans seek to live in harmony and co-exist happily. We try not to dwell on older, less understanding, times!"

_The German accent's gone completely, _Holtack noted_. Get her rattled and she sounds distinctly local..._

Hans Ruijterman raised a hand. Recognising an older and possibly more serious soldier, she gratefully nodded.

"Medam, my home is in Efrrika." he said. "Which you call _Howondalaand_. "I em essured by two women who are almost competriots thet our homelands share meny things. Et home, the bleck natives hev legends of things like the _impundulo_. There is elso the _inyoni yezulu_, the _Thekwane."_

The African names rolled easily off his tongue. Doreen listened, trying not to betray ignorance.

"The Thekwane, which is the Bantu name, is said to menifest es the _Hammerkop_ bird. It brings thunderstorms end lightning with it, end cen change as it wishes into the form of a beautiful maiden or a hendsome werrior. In this form, the _inyoni yezulu _will seduce a native it chooses and empty it of ell blood. Thet is the Zulu form of the name, by the way. It mey only be killed by fire or silver. To me, thet is a vempire by any other name. I hev learned thet things which are myths on our world are real here. Hev you encountered such creatures?"

Doreen was speechless for an instant.

"No, I have not. But it's only recently that Howondaland has opened up and its people have started coming to Ankh-Morpork. This is the first I've heard about native vampires. Cor!"

Now she wasn't German at all.

One of the native Ankh-Morporkians raised a hand.

"Excuse me. Sir? Chap from Rimwards Howondaland? You should go down the Zoo, sir. That miss Smith-Rhodes, she's got a lot of Howondalandian birds in the Aviary and I'm sure one of them's this Hammerkopf thing. Grey thing, little beady eyes, ugly bugger, long sharp pointy black beak. Has to keep it away from the other birds as it goes for them."

"Yeah, she set up this Vampire Birds of Howondaland display." said another Morporkian. "Have you been to see it, miss? Should be right up your crypt!" **(9)**

"I was a guest at the opening." Doreen said. "Lovely plumage!"

She naively asked if Ruijterman had seen these birds at home . He grinned.

"Ja. One of my bleck soldiers in Rhodesia was certain we were under etteck by one. He got exciteable end threw a hend grenade et it. Thet _certainly_ killed the bird!"

There was a short silence. Then Powell grinned and changed the subject.

"Ma'am, they say a vampire can turn somebody into a vampire by biting them. I have got to ask this, as our officer here was sort of, er, attacked by a vampire last night, and we ain't sure about him?"

Holtack winced. _Here it comes_...

Doreen frowned, not sure how to take this.

"Well, all vampires in this city are Black Ribboners and members of the League..."

"Lady called Sally? In the local _heth_, like?" Hughes offered, helpfully. Somebody else sniggered.

Doreen did a double-take.

"Sally von Humpeding?" she snorted. "Well, she's no better than she _ought_ to be, I'm sure!"

_Pure street-Morporkian_, thought Holtack. _And she doesn't like Sally very much... _He'd ask about Doreen when he next met Sally, he decided.

* * *

And elsewhere in the Multiverse, two professional associates left the Four Winds Bar. A forlorn wind sighed and moaned over the black sand of the littoral. The black sea moved and slopped in a slightly unpleasant oily way.

NEED A LIFT, MORT? Asked the Death of the Roundworld, indicating the pillion of his white motorcycle.

NO THANKS. Replied the Death of the Discworld. I TRIED ONE OF THOSE ONCE. BLOODY DANGEROUS THINGS, IF YOU ASK ME. YOU GO AROUND THE CURVE TOO FAST, THERE'S BARELY TIME FOR A SCREAM, AND THE NEXT THING YOU KNOW THERE'S A FIERY CRASH OF CHROME AND STEEL AND YOU'RE REASSEMBLING YOURSELF AT THE BOTTOM OF A CLIFF. **(10)**

YOU SHOULD UPGRADE, MORT. I GAVE UP HORSES A LONG TIME AGO. I'VE GOT FOUR BILLION OF THE BUGGERS TO KEEP TRACK OF. YOU GET AROUND THE DUTY SO MUCH FASTER.

There was a meaningful cough. Susan was leaning against the outside wall of the pub, holding Binky's reins.

MY RIDE'S HERE, ANYWAY. Said Death. HELLO, SUSAN. HAVE YOU BEEN WAITING LONG?

"Just got here." Susan said. "I did the job you asked me to do, Grandfather. Can we go now? This place gives me the creeps!"

And they left, with a backwards glance and a "goodbye" to the Roundworld Death, who paused in putting on his crash helmet and waved cheerfully.

_I really have become as they are, _Susan thought, ruefully, taking her grandfather's hand from the pillion position.

* * *

**(1) **As well as homage to the Blue Öyster Cult's **_Astronomy_**_, _this is a listing of trans-dimensional pubs, taverns, et c which are a popular setting for gothic, macabre, surreal or just generally eldritch stories in fantasy fiction or graphic novels - such as Neil Gaiman's **_Sandman _**series. (In which Death is a far more approachable and laid-back Gothic girl not unlike Susan, but more sympathetic). The song **_Astronomy_** is available on two studio albums, **_Secret Treaties_** (1974) and **_Imaginos_** (1988) as well as a live version on **_Some Enchanted Evening_** (1975).

**(2)** OK, an Elric cameo, along with the Companion to Champions, Moonglum. One day I might write an **_Elric in Ankh-Morpork_** cross-over. I have ideas as to how to marry the styles of Michael Moorcock and Terry Pratchett for comedic or spoofine purposes.

**(3)** This is where you need to listen to, or at least read the lyrics of, Sandy Pearlman, Eric Bloom and Donald "Buck Dharma" Roeser's **_Astronomy. _**Desdinova, Suzie and Miss Carrie, Nurse, are characters in the song, stuck at the sinister Four Winds Bar...

**(4) **See my novella **_Doppelgangers. _**

**(5) **A bit of Patti Smith thrown in for good measure – her song/poem **_Horses_** could feature Binky - plus more references to the film **_Alien_**.

**(6) **Some explanation. _Cwtch_ is a Welsh word with varying levels of meaning depending on the speaker and the context. Pronounced _cootch, _it is one of those words which has passed into "Wenglish" - ie, Welsh dialect English – and can variably mean _kiss, hug, cuddle, snog, neck. _And variations on a theme. In the Wenglish used by Welsh soldiers, the word is a euphemism for sexual contact or the woman provideing the possibility of it. If used in the right context in Welsh, it can have the severest possible pejorative meaning – you can call a generally unfavoured or stupid person a "_cwtch_", and it can be used as a gynaecological dysphemism. Think Cockney rhyming slang here - a "berk" is short for "Berkeley Hunt", in both senses.

**(7) **Refer to Terry Pratchett's _**Feet of Clay**_. A Cenobite priest is one of the only living persons with the secret of making Golems, and other Cenobites make vocal trouble for Cheery Littlebottom as she is trying to investigate his murder; they consider it very important to their religion that the corpse be released to them for _immediate_ burial. Later in the book, Constable Visit describes them as servants of a very angry and vindictive God and quotes from their scriptures. The written script of Cenobians that drives the Golems is deliberately presented to look like formal religious Hebrew, and the Golems have a very Semitic/Yiddish attitude to them. Hmm...

**(8) **Some very strange religions have been derived from the perceived Biblical fact that on expulsion to Babylon, the Jewish people appeared to mislay ten out of twelve tribes who are never referred to in the biblical narrative after that point. British-Israelism, for instance, holds that these tribes escaped captivity and fled to Europe, where they became first fathers of the British, German, French, Italian and Nordic races, thus continuing God's express will that they rule the world in his name. This goes in the face of all conventional history, archaeology, anthropology, myth, legend and philology – why did our ancient British and Irish ancestors not speak Hebrew, for instance, why did they reverence the pig as King of Meats and worship a Boar God...

**(9) **Really true. Wikipedia lists several species of carnivorous Vampire Birds, all of which have a similar attitude to the vampire bat - if it bleeds, I feed. The Vampire Finch and the Red-Billed Ox-Pecker. (the latter name is a description, btw). Johanna normally kept these dangerous birds under strict security at the Animal Management Unit of the Assassins' Guild where they were of professional interest. However, with the Vampire Dollar being of growing economic significance, she'd set up a sample population at the Zoo with special nocturnal viewing hours, to accommodate the special needs of one customer demographic. Lady Margolotta of Uberwald had been honoured to open the display and was pleased to sponsor the cages.

**(10) **See Terry Pratchett's _**Soul Music**_. Death is quoting another Blue Öyster Cult song – _Feel The Thunder,_ about three Hell's Angels who come to grief on a fast ride by night.

* * *

_**Bonus Lyrics For The Perplexed:**_

_**The Blue Öyster Cult - Astronomy**_

The clock strikes twelve and moondrops burst _**  
**_Out at you from their hiding place; _**  
**_Like acid and oil on a madman's face, _**  
**_His reason tends to fly away; _**  
**_Like lesser birds on the four winds, _**  
**_Like silver scrapes in May ,_**  
**_And now the sand's become a crust, _**  
**_Most of you have gone away... Come Susie dear, let's take a walk, _**  
**_Just out there upon the beach; _**  
**_I know you'll soon be married ,_**  
**_And you'll want to know where winds come from _**  
**_Well it's never said at all, _**  
**_On the map that Carrie reads, _**  
**_Behind the clock ,back there you know, _**  
**_At the Four Winds Bar ..Hey! hey! hey! hey! Four winds at the Four Winds Bar, _**  
**_Two doors locked and windows barred, _**  
**_One door to let to take you in, _**  
**_The other one just mirrors it... Hey! hey! hey! hey! Hellish glare and inference, _**  
**_The other one's a duplicate, _**  
**_The queenly flux, Eternal Light ,_**  
**_Or the light that never warms !_**  
**_Yes the light that never, never warms !_**  
**_Or the light that never _**  
**_Never warms !_**  
**_Never warms !_**  
**_Never warms !The clock strikes twelve, and moondrops burst _**  
**_Out at you from their hiding place; _**  
**_Miss Carrie, nurse, and Susie dear _**  
**_Would find themselves at Four Winds Bar It's the nexus, of the crisis, _**  
**_And the origin of storms; _**  
**_Just the place to hopelessly _**  
**_Encounter time, and then came me... Hey!hey! hey! hey! _**  
**__**  
**_Call me Desdinova!_**  
**_Eternal Light! _**  
**_These wizardries of mine _**  
**_Will show me true foresight !_**  
**_And don't forget my dog,

Fixed and consequent ….

Astronomy – a star!

Astronomy – a star!

Astronomy – a Star!

_**Look it up on You-Tube: it's not a bad tune...**_


End file.
